
CC^</ y^et. 




THE 



POETICAL WORKS 

INCLUDING THE DRAMA OF "THE TWO 
MEN OF SANDY BAR" 



OF 



BRET HARTE 



H^ 




fn^ 



^F WASHl^•'' 

BOSTON ^^^^-^ 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

NEW YORK: II EAST SEVENTEENTH STREET 

1882 






Copyright, 1870, 1871, and 1874, 

By fields, OSGOOD & CO. and JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO 

Copyright, 18S2, 

By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 

All rights reserved. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

INTRODUCTION I 



NATIONAL POEMS. 

JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG 13 

" HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY ? " 17 

BATTLE BUNNY IQ 

THE REVEILLE 22 

OUR PRIVILEGE . . 24 

RELIEVING GUARD 25 

THE GODDESS 26 

ON A PEN OF THOMAS STARR KING . . . . . .28 

A SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY .... 29 

THE COPPERHEAD 32 

A SANITARY MESSAGE 33 

THE OLD MAJOR EXPLAINS . 35 

CALIFORNIA'S GREETING TO SEWARD ... -37 

THE AGED STRANGER 39 

THE IDYL OF BATTLE HOLLOW 4I 

CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD 43 

POEM, DELIVERED ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF CAL- 
IFORNIA'S ADMISSION INTO THE UNION . . . ^. 45 

MISS BLANCHE SAYS 48 

AN ARCTIC VISION 52 

ST. THOMAS 55 

OFF SCARBOROUGH 58 



SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS. 

THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO ... . 65 

THE WONDERFUL SPRING OF SAN JOAQUIN . . • .68 



VI 



Contents. 



THE ANGELUS 
CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO 
"FOR THE KING" 
RAMON .... 

DON DIEGO OF THE SOUTH 
AT THE HACIENDA 
FRIAR PEDRO'S RIDE . 
IN THE MISSION GARDEN . 
THE LOST GALLEON . 



72 

74 
81 
88 
91 
95 
96 
102 
104 



POEMS IN DIALECT. 



"JIM" 113 

CHIQUITA 116 

DOW'S FLAT 119 

IN THE TUNNEL I23 

"CICELY" 125 

PENELOPE 129 

PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES . . . -131 

THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS I34 

LUKE 136 

"THE BABES IN THE WOODS " I4I 

THE LATEST CHINESE OUTRAGE I44 

TRUTHFUL JAMES TO THE EDITOR I48 

AN IDYL OF THE ROAD I5I 

THOMPSON OF ANGELS I55 

THE hawk's NEST I58 

HER LETTER 160 / 

HIS ANSWER TO " HER LETTER " 163 

" THE RETURN OF BELISARIUS "...... 166 

FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES .... 168 

AFTER THE ACCIDENT 171 

THE GHOST THAT JIM SAW 1 73 — 

" SEVENTY-NINE " I76 • 

THE stage-driver's STORY 1 79 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

A GREYPORT LEGEND 185 

A NEWPORT ROMANCE 187 



Contents, vii 



PAGE 

SAN FRANCISCO . ' I90 

THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S EASE I92 

GRIZZLY 194 

MADRONO 196 

COYOTE 198 

TO A SEA-BIRD I99 

WHAT THE CHIMNEY SANG 20O 

DICKENS IN CAMP 202 

TWENTY YEARS 204 

FATE 206 

GRANDMOTHER TENTERDEN 207 

guild's SIGNAL . 210' 

ASPIRING MISS DE LAINE 21,2 

A LEGEND OF COLOGNE 219 

THE TALE OF A PONY 228 

ON A CONE OF THE BIG TREES 232 

LONE MOUNTAIN 235 

ALNASCHAR 237 

THE TWO SHIPS 239 

ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE OPENING OF THE CALIFORNIA 

THEATRE, SAN FRANCISCO, JANUARY I9, 187O . . . 240 

DOLLY VARDEN 242 

TELEMACHUS VERSUS MENTOR 244 

WHAT THE WOLF REALLY SAID TO LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD . 248 

HALF-AN-HOUR BEFORE SUPPER 249 

WHAT THE BULLET SANG 252 



PARODIES, ETC. 

BEFORE THE CURTAIN 255 

TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL 256 

THE BALLAD OF MR. COOKE 258 

THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU 263 

MRS. JUDGE JENKINS 265 

A GEOLOGICAL MADRIGAL 268 

AVITOR 270 

THE WILLOWS ■ . . . . 272 

NORTH BEACH 275 

THE LOST TAILS OF MILETUS 276 

THE RITUALIST 27S 

A MORAL VINDICATOR 279 



viii Contents. 

PAGE. 

CALIFORNIA MADRIGAL 281 

WHAT THE ENGINES SAID 283 

THE LEGENDS OF THE RHINE 286 

SONGS WITHOUT SENSE 288 



LITTLE POSTERITY. 

MASTER johnny's NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR .... 293 

MISS Edith's modest request 296 

MISS EDITH MAKES IT PLEASANT FOR BROTHER JACK . . 30O 

MISS EDITH MAKES ANOTHER FRIEND 302 

ON THE LANDING . . . . \ 3O4 



DRAMA. 

TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR . . 307 

CADET GREY 43I 



INTRODUCTION. 



In rearranging and editing the following pages, the author 
is impelled by a desire to present under his own super- 
vision a complete edition of his writings which shall show 
as nearly as possible the order in which his several tales 
and sketches have appeared in America \ shall contain those 
writings and sketches which have appeared in England at 
various times and under various shapes and editions ; and 
shall, more particularly, take the place of a volume known 
as his "Complete Works." This volume, published in 
1872, before the author's presence in Europe made his 
personal cognisance and supervision of such a work pos- 
sible, was desultory and incomplete, even for the time of 
its publication. The present edition aims to contain the 
substance of that volume, duly corrected, with all that was 
then omitted by the editor or has since been published by 
the author. 

The opportunity here offered to give some account of 
the genesis of these Californian sketches, and the con- 
ditions under which they were conceived, is peculiarly 
tempting to an author who has been obliged to retain a 
decent professional reticence under a cloud of ingenious 

VOL. I. A 



2 Introduction. 

surmise, theory, and misinterpretation. It might seem 
hardly necessary to assure an intelligent English audience 
that the idea and invention of these stories was not due to 
the success of a satirical poem known as the " Heathen 
Chinee," or that the author obtained a hearing for his prose 
writings through this happy local parable ; yet it is within 
the past year that he has had the satisfaction of reading 
this ingenious theory in a literary review of no mean 
eminence. He very gladly seizes this opportunity to 
establish the chronology of the sketches, and incidentally 
to show that what are considered the " happy accidents " 
of literature are very apt to be the results of quite logical 
and often prosaic processes. 

The author's 7?r^/ volume was published in 1865 in a 
thin book of verse, containing, besides the titular poem, 
" The Lost Galleon," various patriotic contributions to the 
lyrics of the civil war, then raging, and certain better known 
humorous pieces, which have been hitherto interspersed with 
his later poems in separate volumes, but are now restored 
to their former companionship. This was followed in 1867 
by " The Condensed Novels," originally contributed to the 
San Francisco Califorjiia^i, a journal then edited by the 
author, and a number of local sketches entitled " Bohemian 
Papers," making a single not very plethoric volume, the 
author's first book of prose. But he deems it worthy of 
consideration that during this period, i.e., from 1862 to 
1866, he produced "The Society upon the Stanislaus" 
and "The Story of Mliss," — the first a dialectical poem, 
the second a Californian romance, — his first efforts toward 
indicating a peculiarly characteristic Western American 
literature. He would like to offer these facts as evidence 



Introduction. 3 

of his very early, half-boyish, but very enthusiastic, belief 
in such a possibility — a belief which never deserted him, 
and which, a few years later, from the better-known pages 
of the Overland Monthly, he was able to demonstrate to a 
larger and more cosmopolitan audience in the story of " The 
Luck of Roaring Camp " and the poem of the " Heathen 
Chinee." But it was one of the anomalies of the very 
condition of life that he worked amidst, and endeavoured 
to portray, that these first efforts were rewarded by very 
little success ; and, as he will presently show, even " The 
Luck of Roaring Camp" depended for its recognition in 
California upon its success elsewhere. Hence the critical 
reader will observe that the bulk of these earlier efforts, as 
shown in the first two volumes, were marked by very little 
flavour of the soil, but were addressed to an audience half 
foreign in their sympathies, and still imbued with Eastern 
or New England habits and literary traditions. " Home " 
was still potent with these voluntary exiles in their moments 
of relaxation. Eastern magazines and current Eastern 
literature formed their literary recreation, and the sale of 
the better class of periodicals was singularly great. Nor 
was the taste confined to American literature. The illus- 
trated and satirical English journals were as frequently seen 
in California as in Massachusetts ; and the author records 
that he has experienced more difficulty in procuring a copy 
of Punch in an English provincial town than was his fortune 
at "Red Dog" or "One-Horse Gulch." An audience thus 
liberally equipped and familiar with the best modern writers 
was naturally critical and exacting, and no one appreciates 
more than he does the salutary effects of this severe dis- 
cipline upon his earlier efforts. 



4 I?itrodtiction. 

When the first number of the Overland Monthly appeared, 
the author, then its editor, called the publisher's attention to 
the lack of any distinctive Californian romance in its pages> 
■ and averred that, should no other contribution come in, he 
himself would supply the omission in the next number. No 
other contribution was offered, and the author, having the 
plot and general idea already in his mind, in a few days 
sent the manuscript of " The Luck of Roaring Camp " to the 
printer. He had not yet received the proof-sheets when 
he was suddenly summoned to the ofi&ce of the publisher, 
whom he found standing the picture of dismay and anxiety 
with the proof before him. The indignation and stupefac- 
tion of the author can be well understood when he was 
told that the printer, instead of returning the proofs to him, 
submitted them to the publisher, with the emphatic declara- 
tion that the matter thereof was so indecent, irreligious, and 
improper, that his proof-reader — a young lady — had with 
difficulty been induced to continue its perusal, and that he, 
as a friend of the publisher and a well-wisher of the magazine, 
was impelled to present to him personally this shameless 
evidence of the manner in which the editor was imperilling 
the future of that enterprise. It should be premised that 
the critic was a man of character and standing, the head of 
a large printing establishment, a church member, and, the 
author thinks, a deacon. In which circumstances the pub- 
lisher frankly admitted to the author that, while he could 
not agree with all of the printer's criticisms, he thought the 
story open to grave objection, and its publication of doubtful 
expediency. 

Believing only that he was the \ictim of some extra- 
ordinary typographical blunder, the author at once sat down 



Introdtiction. 5 

and read the proof. In its new dress, with the metamorphosis 
of type — that metamorphosis which every writer so well 
knows changes his relations to it and makes it no longer 
seem a part of himself — he was able to read it with some- 
thing of the freshness of an untold tale. As he read on 
he found himself affected, even as he had been affected in 
the conception and writing of it — a feeling so incompatible 
with the charges against it, that he could only lay it down 
and declare emphatically, albeit hopelessly, that he could 
really see nothing objectionable in it. Other opinions were 
sought and given. To the author's surprise, he found himself 
in the minority. Finally, the story was submitted to three 
gentlemen of culture and experience, friends of publisher 
and author, — who were unable, however, to come to any clear 
decision. It was, however, suggested to the author that, 
assuming the natural hypothesis that his editorial reasoning 
might be warped by his literary predilections in a considera- 
tion of one of his own productions, a personal sacrifice would 
at this juncture be in the last degree heroic. This last 
suggestion had the effect of ending all further discussion ; 
for he at once informed the publisher that the question of 
the propriety of the story was no longer at issue ; the only 
question was of his capacity to exercise the proper editorial 
judgment; and that unless he was permitted to test that 
capacity by the publication of the story, and abide squarely 
by the result, he must resign his editorial position. The 
publisher, possibly struck with the author's confidence, 
possibly from kindliness of disposition to a younger man, 
yielded, and " The Luck of Roaring Camp " was published 
in the current num.ber of the magazine for which it was 
written, as it was written, without emendation, omission, 



6 Introdtiction. 

alteration, or apology. A no inconsiderable part of the 
grotesqueness of the situation was the feeling, which the 
author retained throughout the whole affair, of the perfect 
sincerity, good faith, and seriousness of his friend's — the 
printer's — objection, and for many days thereafter he was 
haunted by a consideration of the sufferings of this con 
scientious man, obliged to assist materially in disseminating 
the dangerous and subversive doctrines contained in this 
baleful fiction. What solemn protests must have been laid 
with the ink on the rollers and impressed upon those 
wicked sheets ! what pious warnings must have been secretly 
folded and stitched in that number of the Overland Monthly ! 
Across the chasm of years and distance the author stretches 
forth the hand of sympathy and forgiveness, not forgetting 
the gentle proof-reader, that chaste and unknown nymph, 
whose mantling cheeks and downcast eyes gave the first 
indications of warning. 

But the troubles of the " Luck" were far from ended. It 
had secured an entrance into the world, but, like its own 
hero, it was born with an evil reputation and to a community 
that had yet to learn to love it. The secular press, with 
one or two exceptions, received it coolly, and referred to its 
" singularity ;" the religious press frantically excommunicated 
it, and anathematised it as the offspring of evil ; the high 
promise of the Overland Monthly was said to have been 
ruined by its birth ; Christians were cautioned against pol- 
lution by its contact ; practical business men were gravely 
urged to condemn and frown upon this picture of Califor- 
nian society that was not conducive to Eastern immigration ; 
its hapless author was held up to obloquy as a man who 
had abused a sacred trust. If its life and reputation had 



Introdziction. 7 

depended on its reception in California, this edition and 
explanation would alike have been needless. But, fortu- 
nately, the young Overland Monthly had in its first number 
secured a hearing and position throughout the American 
Union, and the author waited the larger verdict. The 
publisher, albeit his worst fears were confirmed, was not a 
man to weakly regret a position he had once taken, and 
waited also. The return mail from the East brought a letter 
addressed to the " Editor of the Overland Monthly," enclos- 
ing a letter from Fields, Osgood & Co., the publishers of 
the Atlantic Motithly, addressed to the — to them — unknown 
*' Author of ' The Luck of Roaring Camp. ' " This the author 
opened, and found to be a request, upon the most flattering 
terms, for a story for the Atlantic similar to the " Luck." 
The same mail brought newspapers and reviews welcoming 
the little foundling of Californian literature with an enthu- 
siasm that half frightened its author ; but with the placing of 
that letter in the hands of the publisher, who chanced to be 
standing by his side, and who during those dark days had, 
without the author's faith, sustained the author's position, 
he felt that his compensation was full and complete. 

Thus encouraged, "The Luck of Roaring Camp" was 
followed by " The Outcasts of Poker Flat," " Higgles," 
"Tennessee's Partner," and those various other characters 
who had impressed the author when, a mere truant 
schoolboy, he had lived among them. It is hardly 
necessary to say to any observer of human nature that at 
this time he was advised by kind and well-meaning friends 
to content himself with the success of the " Luck," and not 
tempt criticism again ; or that from that moment ever after 
he was in receipt of that equally sincere contemporaneous 



8 Introdttction. 

criticism which assured him gravely that each successive 
story was a falling off from the last. Howbeit, by rein- 
vigorated confidence in himself and some conscientious 
industry, he managed to get together in a year six or eight 
of these sketches, which, in a volume called " The Luck of 
Roaring Camp and Other Sketches," gave him that en- 
couragement in America and England that has since 
seemed to justify him in swelling these records of a 
picturesque passing civilisation into the compass of the 
present edition. 

A few words regarding the peculiar conditions of life and 
society that are here rudely sketched, and often but barely 
outlined. The author is aware that, partly from a habit 
of thought and expression, partly from the exigencies of 
brevity in his narratives, and partly from the habit of 
addressing an audience familiar with the local scenery, he 
often assumes, as premises already granted by the reader, 
the existence of a peculiar and romantic state of civilisation, 
the like of which few English readers are inclined to accept 
without corroborative facts and figures. These he could 
only give by referring to the ephemeral records of Californian 
journals of that date, and the testimony of far-scattered 
witnesses, survivors of the exodus of 1849. He must beg 
the reader to bear in mind that this emigration was either 
across a continent almost unexplored, or by the way of a 
long and dangerous voyage around Cape Horn, and that 
the promised land itself presented the singular spectacle of 
a patriarchal Latin race who had been left to themselves, 
forgotten by the world, for nearly three hundred years. 
The faith, courage, vigour, youth, and capacity for adventure 
necessary to this emigration produced a body of men as 



Introduction. 9 

strongly distinctive as the companions of Jason. Unlike 
most pioneers, the majority were men of profession and 
education ; all were young, and all had staked their future in 
the enterprise. Critics who have taken large and exhaustive 
views of mankind and society from club windows in Pall 
Mall or the Fifth Avenue can only accept for granted the 
turbulent chivalry that thronged the streets of San Francisco 
in the gala days of her youth, and must read the blazon of 
their deeds like the doubtful quarterings of the shield of 
Amadis de Gaul. The author has been frequently asked 
if such and such incidents were real ; if he had ever met 
such and such characters ? To this he must return the one 
answer, that in only a single instance was he conscious 
of drawing purely from his imagination and fancy for a 
character and a logical succession of incidents drawn there- 
from. A few weeks after his story was published, he 
received a letter, authentically signed, correcting so?ne of the 
minor details of his facts (!), and enclosing as corroborative 
evidence a slip from an old newspaper, wherein the main 
incident of his supposed fanciful creation was recorded with 
a largeness of statement that far transcended his powers of 
imagination. 

He has been repeatedly cautioned, kindly and unkindly, 
intelligently and unintelligently, against his alleged tendency 
to confuse recognised standards of morality by extenu- 
ating lives of recklessness, and often criminality, with a 
single solitary virtue. He might easily show that he has 
never written a sermon, that he has never moralised or 
commented upon the actions of his heroes, that he has 
never voiced a creed or obtrusively demonstrated an 
ethical opinion. He might easily allege that this merciful 



lo Introduction. 

effect of his art arose from the reader's weak human sym- 
pathies, and hold himself irresponsible. But he would be 
conscious of a more miserable weakness in thus divorcing 
himself from his fellow-men who in the domain of art 
must ever walk hand in hand with him. So he prefers to 
say, that of all the various forms in which Cant presents 
itself to suffering humanity, he knows of none so out- 
rageous, so illogical, so undemonstrable, so marvellously 
absurd as the Cant of " Too Much Mercy." When it shall 
be proven to him that communities are degraded and 
brought to guilt and crime, suffering or destitution, from a 
predominance of this quality ; when he shall see pardoned 
ticket-of-leave men elbowing men of austere lives out of 
situation and position, and the repentant Magdalen sup- 
planting the blameless virgin in society, then he will lay 
aside his pen and extend his hand to the new Draconian 
discipline in fiction. But until then he will, without claiming 
to be a religious man or a moralist, but simply as an artist, 
reverently and humbly conform to the rules laid down by 
a Great Poet who created the parable of the "Prodigal 
Son " and the "Good Samaritan," whose works have lasted 
eighteen hundred years, and will remain when the present 
writer and his generation are forgotten. And he is con- 
scious of uttering no original doctrine in this, but of only 
voicing the beliefs of a few of his literary brethren happily 
living, and one gloriously dead, who never made proclama- 
tion of this "from the housetops." 



POEMS. 

National. 



Slofin Xmm of (Fettg^tutg* 

Have you heard the story that gossips tell 

Of Burns of Gettysburg? — No ? Ah, well : 

Brief is the glory that hero earns, 

Briefer the story of poor John Burns : 

He was the fellow who won renown, — 

The only man who didn't back down 

When the rebels rode through his native town 

But held his own in the fight next day, 

When all his townsfolk ran away. 

That was in July sixty-three, 

The very day that General Lee, 

Flower of Southern chivalry, 

Baffled and beaten, backward reeled 

From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. 

I might tell how but the day before 

John Burns stood at his cottage door, 

Looking down the village street. 

Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, 

He heard the low of his gathered kine. 

And felt their breath with incense sweet ; 

Or I might say, when the sunset burned 

The old farm gable, he thought it turned 

The milk that fell like a babbling flood 

Into the milk-pail red as blood ! 

Or how he fancied the hum of bees ' 



14 John Burns of Gettysburg. 

Were bullets buzzing among the trees. 
But all such fanciful thoughts as these 
Were strange to a practical man like Burns, 
Who minded only his own concerns, 
Troubled no more by fancies fine 
Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed, kine,- 
Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, 
Slow to argue, but quick to act. 
That was the reason, as some folk say, 
He fought so well on that terrible day. 

And it was terrible. On the right 

Raged for hours the heady fight, 

Thundered the battery's double bass, — ■ 

Difficult music for men to face ; 

While on the left — where now the graves 

Undulate like the living waves 

That all that day unceasing swept 

Up to the pits the rebels kept — 

Round shot ploughed the upland glades, 

Sown with bullets, reaped with blades ; 

Shattered fences here and there 

Tossed their splinters in the air ; 

The very trees were stripped and bare \ 

The barns that once held yellow grain 

Were heaped with harvests of the slain ; 

The cattle bellowed on the plain. 

The turkeys screamed with might and main. 

And brooding barn-fowl left their rest 

With strange shells bursting in each nest. 

Just where the tide of battle turns, 
Erect and lonely stood old John Burns. 



John Burns of Gettysburg. 1 5 

How do you think the man was dressed? 

He wore an ancient long buff vest, 

Yellow as saffron, — but his best ; 

And, buttoned over his manly breast, 

Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, 

And large gilt buttons, — size of a dollar, — 

With tails that the country-folk called "swaller." 

He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, 

White as the locks on which it sat. 

Never had such a sight been seen 

For forty years on the village green, 

Since old John Burns was a country beau, 

And went to the "quiltings" long ago. 

Close at his elbows all that day, 

Veterans of the Peninsula, 

Sunburnt and bearded, charged away ; 

And striplings, downy of lip and chin, — 

Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in, — 

Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore. 

Then at the rifle his right hand bore ; 

And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, 

With scraps of a slangy repertoire : 

" How are you. White Hat ! " " Put her through ! " 

"Your head's level ! " and " Bully for you ! " 

Called him " Daddy," — begged he'd disclose 

The name of the tailor who made his clothes, 

And what was the value he set on those ; 

While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, 

Stood there picking the rebels off, — 

With his long brown rifle and bell-crown hat, 

And the swallow-tails they were laughing at. 

'Twas but a moment, for that respect 

Which clothes all courage their voices checked ; 



1 6 John Burns of Gettysburg. 

And something the wildest could understand 
Spake in the old man's strong right hand, 
And his corded throat, and the lurking frown 
Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown 3 
Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe 
Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw. 
In the antique vestments and long white hair, 
The Past of the Nation in battle there ; 
And some of the soldiers since declare 
That the gleam of his old white hat afar, 
Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, 
That day was their oriflamme of war. 

So raged the battle. You know the rest : 
How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, 
Broke at the final charge and ran. 
At which John Burns — a practical man — 
Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, 
And then went back to his bees and cows. 

That is the story of old John Burns ; 
This is the moral the reader learns : 
In fighting the battle, the question's whether 
You'll show a hst that's white, or a feather I 



( 17 ) 



" !E)otJ3 are ^ou, ^anitarg ? " 

Down the picket-guarded lane 

Rolled the comfort-laden wain, 

Cheered by shouts that shook the plain, 
Soldier-like and merry : 

Phrases such as camps may teach, 

Sabre-cuts of Saxon speech, 

Such as "Bully ! " " Them's the peach !" 
" Wade in, Sanitary ! " 

Right and left the caissons drew 
As the car went lumbering through, 
Quick succeeding in review 

Squadrons military ; 
Sunburnt men with beards like frieze, 
Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these, — 
" U. S. San. Com." " That's the cheese ! " 

" Pass in. Sanitary ! " 

In such cheer it struggled on 
Till the battle front was won, 
Then the car, its journey done, 

Lo ! was stationary ; 
And where bullets whistling fly. 
Came the sadder, fainter cry, 
" Help us, brothers, ere we die, — 

Save us, Sanitary ! " 

VOL. I 



1 8 '■'■ How are you. Sanitary f^ 

Such the work. The phantom flies, 
Wrapped in battle clouds that rise ; 
But the brave — whose dying eyes, 

Veiled and visionary, 
See the jasper gates swung wide, 
See the parted throng outside — 
Hears the voice to those who ride : 

*• Pass in, Sanitary I " 



C 19 ) 



(malvern hill, 1864.) 

[" After the men were ordered to lie down, a white rabbit, which had 
been hopping hither and thither over the field swept by grape and 
musketry, took refuge among the skirmishers, in the breast of a cor- 
poral." — Report of the Battle of Malvern Hill.'] 

Bunny, lying in the grass, 
Saw the shining column pass ; 
Saw the starry banner fly, 
Saw the chargers fret and fume, 
Saw the flapping hat and plume — 
Saw them with his moist and shy 
Most unspeculative eye, 
Thinking only, in the dew, 
That it was a fine review — 
Till a flash, not all of steel, 
Where the rolling caissons wheel, 
Brought a rumble and a roar 
Rolling down that velvet floor, 
And like blows of autumn flail 
Sharply threshed the iron hail. 

Bunny, thrilled by unknown fears, 
Raised his soft and pointed ears, 
Mumbled his prehensile lip, 
Quivered his pulsating hip, 



20 Battle Bunny. 



As the sharp vindictive yell 
Rose above the screaming shelly 
Thought the world and all its men- 
All the charging squadrons meant — 
All were rabbit-hunters then, 
All to capture him intent. 
Bunny was not much to blame : 
Wiser folk have thought the same — 
Wiser folk who think they spy 
Every ill begins with " I." 

Wildly panting here and there, 
Bunny sought the freer air, 
Till he hopped below the hill, 
And saw, lying close and still, 
Men with muskets in their hands, 
(Never Bunny understands 
That hypocrisy of sleep, 
In the vigils grim they keep, 
As recumbent on that spot 
They elude the level shot.) 

One — a grave and quiet man, 
Thinking of his wife and child 
Far beyond the Rapidan, 
Where the Androsaggin smiled^ 
Felt the little rabbit creep, 
NestHng by his arm and side, 
Wakened from strategic sleep. 
To that soft appeal replied, 
Drew him to his blackened breast, 
And— 

But you have guessed the rest. 
Softly o'er that chosen pair 
Omnipresent Love and Care 



Battle Bunny. 21 

Drew a mightier Hand and Arm, 
Shielding them from every harm; 
Eight and left the bullets waved, 
Saved the saviour for the saved. 



Who believes that equal grace 
God extends in every place, 
Little difference he scans 
*Twixt a rabbit's God and man'& 



( 22 ) 



Hark ! I hear the tramp of thousands, 

And of armed men the hum ; 
Lo ! a nation's hosts have gathered 
Round the quick alarming drum, — 
>. Saying, "Come, 
Freemen, come ! 
Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick alarming drum, 

" Let me of my heart take counsel : 
War is not of life the sum ; 
Who shall stay and reap the harvest 
When the autumn days shall come ? " 
But the drum 
Echoed, " Come ! 
Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn- 
sounding drum. 

" But when won the coming battle, 
What of profit springs therefrom ? 
What if conquest, subjugation. 
Even greater ills become ? " 
But the drum 
Answered, " Come ! 
You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee-answer- 
ing drum. 



The Reveille. 23 

** What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder, 
Whistling shot and bursting bomb, 
When my brothers fall around me, 

Should my heart grow cold and numb ? " 
But the drum 
Answered, " Come ! 
Better there in death united, than in life a recreant, — 
Come ! " 

Thus they answered, — hoping, fearing, 

Some in faith, and doubting some, 
Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming, 
Said, " My chosen people, come ! " 
Then the drum, 
Lo ! was dumb. 
For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered 
*' Lord, we come ! " 



( 24 ) 



Not ours, where battle smoke upcurls, 

And battle dews lie wet, 
To meet the charge that treason hurls 

By sword and bayonet. 

Not ours to guide the fatal scythe 
The fleshless Reaper wields ; 

The harvest moon looks calmly down 
Upon our peaceful fields. 

The long grass dimples on the hill, 

The pines sing by the sea, 
And Plenty, from her golden horn, 

Is pouring far and free. 

O brothers by the farther sea ! 

Think still our faith is warm ; 
The same bright flag above us waves 

That swathed our baby form. 

The same red blood that dyes your fields 
Here throbs in patriot pride — 

The blood that flowed when Lander fell, 
And Baker's crimson tide. 

And thus apart our hearts keep time 

With every pulse ye feel, 
And Mercy's ringing gold shall chime 

With Valour's clashina; steel. 



( 25 ) 



EelieDing (0uarD* 

T. S. K. OBIIT MARCH 4, 1 864. 

Came the relief. " What, sentry, ho ! 

How passed the night through thy long waking ? " 

" Cold, cheerless, dark, — as may befit 

The hour before the dawn is breaking." 

" No sight ? no sound ? " " No ; nothing save 
The plover from the marches calling, 
And in yon western sky, about 
An hour ago, a star was falling." 

"A star? There's nothing strange in that." 
" No, nothing ; but, above the thicket, 
Somehow it seemed to me that God 
Somewhere had just relieved a picket** 



( 26 ) 



FOR THE SANITARY FAIR. 

" Who oomes ? " The sentry's warning cry 
Rings sharply on the evening air : 

Who comes ? The challenge : no reply, 
Yet something motions there, 

A woman, by those graceful folds ; 

A soldier, by that martial tread : 
" Advance three paces. Halt ! until 

Thy name and rank be said." 

" My name ? Her name, in ancient song 
Who fearless from Olympus came : 

Look on me ! Mortals know me best 
In battle and in flame." 

" Enough ! I know that clarion voice ; 

I know that gleaming eye and helm ; 
Those crimson lips, — and in their dew 

The best blood of the realm. 

" The young, the brave, the good and wise, 
Have fallen in thy curst embrace : 

The juices of the grapes of wrath ' 
Still stain thy guilty face. 



The Goddess. \' ' 27 

" My brother lies in yonder field, 
Face downward to the quiet grass : 

Go back ! he cannot see thee now ; 
But here thou shalt not pass." 

A crack upon the evening air, 

A wakened echo from the hill : 
The watchdog on the distant shore 

Gives mouth, and all is still. 

The sentry with his brother lies 
Face downward on the quiet grass ; 

And by him, in the pale moonshine, 
A shadow seems to pass. 

No lance or warlike shield it bears : 

A helmet in its pitying hands 
Brings water from the nearest brook, 

To meet his last demands. 

Can this be she of haughty mien, 

The goddess of the sword and shield ? 

Ah, yes ! The Grecian poet's myth 
Sways still each battlefield. 

For not alone that rugged War 

Some grace or charm from Beauty gains 3 
But, when the goddess' work is done, 

The woman's still remains. 



( 28 ) 



€)n a Pen of Cfjoma^ ®tatr Emg» 

This is the reed the dead musician dropped, 
With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden ; 

The prompt allegro of its music stopped, 
Its melodies unbidden. 

But who shall finish the unfinished strain, 
Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder, 

And bid the slender barrel breathe again, 
An organ- pipe of thunder ! 

His pen ! what humbler memories cling about 

Its golden curves ! what shapes and laughing graces 

Slipped froin its point, when his full heart went out 
In smiles and courtly phrases ? 

The truth, half jesting, half in earnest flung ; 

The word of cheer, with recognition in it ; 
The note of alms, whose golden speech outrung 

The golden gift within it. 

But all in vain the enchanter's wand we wave : 
No stroke of ours recalls his magic vision : 

The incantation that its power gave 
Sleeps with the dead magician. 



( 29 ) 



a @)econD iRetJieto of tbe (0tanD Hrmg* 

I READ last night of the grand review 
In Washington's chiefest avenue, — 
Two hundred thousand men in blue, 

I think they said was the number, — 
Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet, 
The bugle blast and the drum's quick beat, 
The clatter of hoofs in the stony street. 
The cheers of people who came to greet, 
And the thousand details that to repeat 

Would only my verse encumber, — 
Till I fell in a reverie, sad and sweet, 

And then to a fitful slumber. 

When, lo ! in a vision I seemed to stand 
In the lonely Capitol. On each hand 
Far stretched the portico, dim and grand 
Its columns ranged like a martial band 
Of sheeted spectres, whom some command 

Had called to a last reviewing. 
And the streets of the city were white and bare ; 
No footfall echoed across the square ; 
But out of the misty midnight air 
I heard in the distance a trumpet blare, 
And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear 

The sound of a far tattooing. 



30 A Second Review of the Grand Army. 

Then I held my breath with fear and dread ; 
For into the square, with a brazen tread, 
There rode a figure whose stately head 

O'erlooked the review that morning, 
That never bowed from its firm-set seat 
When the living column passed its feet, 
Yet now rode steadily up the street 

To the phantom bugle's warning. 

Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled, 
And there in the moonlight stood revealed 
A well-known form that in State and field 

Had led our patriot sires : 
Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp, 
Afar through the river's fog and damp, 
That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp. 

Nor wasted bivouac fires. 

And I saw a phantom army come, 
With never a sound of fife or drum, 
But keeping time to a throbbing hum 

Of wailing and lamentation : 
The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill, 
Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville, 
The men whose wasted figures fill 

The patriot graves of the nation. 

And there came the nameless dead, — the men 
Who perished in fever swamp and fen, 
The slowly-starved of the prison pen ; 

And, marching beside the others. 
Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight. 
With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright ; ' 
I thought — perhaps 'twas the pale moonlight — 

They looked as white as their brothers ! 



A Second Review of the Grand Army. 31 

And so all night marched the nation's dead, 
With never a banner above them spread, 
Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished ; 
No mark — save the bare uncovered head 

Of the silent bronze Reviewer ; 
With never an arch save the vaulted sky \ 
With never a flower save those that lie 
On the distant graves — for love could buy 

No gift that was purer or truer. 

So all night long swept the strange array, 
So all night long till the morning gray 
I watched for one who had passed away, 

With a reverent awe and wonder, — 
Till a blue cap waved in the length'ning line, 
And I knew that one who was kin of mine 
Had come ; and I spake — and lo ! that sign 

Awakened me from my slumber. 



( 32 ) 



Cfje Copper!)eati* 

(1864.) 

There is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead 

sleeps, 
Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapour creeps, 
Where the musk of Magnolia hangs thick in the air, 
And the lilies' phylacteries broaden in prayer. 
There is peace in the swamp, though the quiet is death, 
Though the mist is miasma, the upas-tree's breath. 
Though no echo awakes to the cooing of doves, — 
There is peace : yes, the peace that the Copperhead loves ! 

Go seek him : he coils in the ooze and the drip, 
Like a thong idly flung from the slave-driver's whip ; 
But beware the false footstep, — the stumble that brings 
A deadlier lash than the overseer swings. 
Never arrow so true, never bullet so dread, 
As the straight steady stroke of that hammer-shaped head ; 
Whether slave or proud panther, who braves that dull crest. 
Woe to him who shall trouble the Copperhead's rest ! 

Then why waste your labours, brave hearts and strong men, 
In tracking a trail to the Copperhead's den ? 
Lay your axe to the cypress, hew open the shade 
To the free sky and sunshine Jehovah has made; 
Let the breeze of the North sweep the vapours away, 
Till the stagnant lake ripples,. the freed waters play; 
And then to your heel can you righteously doom 
The Copperhead born of its shadow and gloom ! 



C 33 ) 



Last night, above the whistling wind, 

I heard the welcome rain, — 
A fusillade upon the roof, 

A tattoo on the pane : 
The keyhole piped ; the chimney-top 

A warlike trumpet blew ; 
Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife, 

A softer voice stole through. 

" Give thanks, O brothers ! " said the voice, 

" That He who sent the rains 
Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew 

That drips from patriot veins : 
I've seen the grass on Eastern graves 

In brighter verdure rise ; 
But, oh ! the rain that gave it life 

Sprang first from human eyes. 

" I come to wash away no stain 

Upon your wasted lea ; 
I raise no banners, save the ones 

The forest waves to me : 
Upon the mountain side, where Spring 

Her farthest picket sets, 
My reveille awakes a host 

Of grassy bayonets. 



VOL. I. 



34 -^ Sanitary Message. 

" I visit every humble roof ; 

I mingle with the low : 
Only upon the highest peaks 

My blessings fall in snow ; 
Until, in tricklings of the stream 

And drainings of the lea, 
My unspent bounty comes at last 

To mingle with the sea." 

And thus all night, above the wind, 

I heard the welcome rain, — 
A fusillade upon the roof, 

A tattoo on the pane : 
The keyhole piped ; the chimney-top 

A warlike trumpet blew ; 
But, mingling with these sounds of strife, 

This hymn of peace stole through. 



( 35 ) 



(re-union, army of the POTOMAC, I2TH MAY 1871.) 

Well, you see, the fact is. Colonel, I don't know as I can 

come : 
For the farm is not half planted, and there's work to do at 

home; 
And my leg is getting troublesome, — it laid me up last Fall, 
And the doctors, they have cut and hacked, and never 

found the ball. 

And then, for an old man like me, it's not exactly right, 
This kind o' playing soldier with no enemy in sight. 
*' The Union," — that was well enough way up to '66 ; 
But this "Re-Union," maybe now it's mixed with politics? 

No ? Well, you understand it best ; but then, you see, my 

lad, 
I'm deacon now, and some might think that the example's 

bad. 
And week from next is Conference. . . . You said the twelfth 

of May ? 
Why, that's the day we broke their line at Spottsyl- 

van-i-a ! 



2,6 The Old Major Explains. 

Hot work ; eh, Colonel, wasn't it ? Ye mind that narrow 

front : 
They called it the " Death-Angle ! " Well, well, my lad, we 

won't 
Fight that old battle over now : I only meant to say 
I really can't engage to come upon the twelfth of May, 

How's Thompson ? What ! will he be there ? Well, now 

I wan't to know ! 
The first man in the rebel works ! they called him " Swearing 

Joe." 
A wild young fellow, sir, I fear the rascal was ; but then — 
Well, short of heaven, there wa'n't a place he dursn't lead 

his men. 

And Dick, you say, is coming too. And Billy ? ah ! it's 
true 

We buried him at Gettysburg : I mind the spot ; do you ? 

A little field below the hill, — it must be green this May; 

Perhaps that's why the fields about bring him to me to- 
day. 

Well, well, excuse me. Colonel ! but there are some things 

that drop 
The tail-board out one's feelings ; and the only way's to 

stop. 
So they want to see the old man ; ah, the rascals ! do they, 

eh? 
Well, I've business down in Boston about the twelfth of 

May. 



( 11 ) 



Cal!fotnia'j8f (Greeting; to ^etoatU* 

(1869.) 

We know him well : no need of praise 

Or bonfire from the windy hill 
To light to softer paths and ways 

The world-worn man we honour stilL 

No need to quote those truths he spoke 

That burned through years of war and shame, 

While History carves with surer stroke 
Across our map his noonday fame. 

No need to bid him show the scars 
Or blows dealt by the Scsean gate, 

Who lived to pass its shattered bars, 
And see the foe capitulate : 

Who lived to turn his slower feet 

Toward the western setting sun, 
To see his harvest all complete, 

His dream fulfilled, his duty done, 

The one flag streaming from the pole, 
The one faith borne from sea to sea : 

For such a triumph, and such goal. 
Poor must our human greeting be. 



38 Calif ornid s Greeting to Seward, 

Ah ! rather that the conscious land 
In simpler ways salute the Man, — 

The tall pines bowing where they stand, 
The bared head of El Capitan, 

The tumult of the waterfalls, 
Pohono's kerchief in the breeze, 

The waving from the rocky walls, 
The stir and rustle of the trees ; ■ 

Till, lapped in sunset skies of hope, 
In sunset lands by sunset seas, 

The Young World's Premier treads the slope 
Of sunset years in calm and peace. 



( 39 ) 



C!)e Hgeti stranger* 

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 

** I WAS with Grant — " the stranger said j 
Said the farmer, " Say no more, 

But rest thee here at my cottage porch, 
For thy feet are weary and sore." 

** I was with Grant — " the stranger said ; 

Said the farmer, " Nay, no more, — 
I prithee sit at my frugal board. 

And eat of my humble store. 

" How fares my boy, — my soldier boy, 
Of the old Ninth Army Corps ? 

I warrant he bore him gallantly 

In the smoke and the battle's roar ! " 

" I know him not," said the aged man, 
" And, as I remarked before, 

I was with Grant — " " Nay, nay, I know," 
Said the farmer, " say no more : 

" He fell in battle, — I see, alas ! 

Thou'dst smooth these tidings o'er, — 
Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, 

Though it rend my bosom's core. 



40 The Aged Stranger. 

" How fell he ? — with his face to the foe, 
Upholding the flag he bore ? 

Oh, say not that my boy disgraced ' 
The uniform that he wore ! " 

"I cannot tell," said the aged man, 
" And should have remarked before, 

That I was with Grant, — in Illinois, — 
Some three years before the war." 

Then the farmer spake him never a word, 
But beat with his fist full sore 

That aged man, who had worked for Grant 
Some three years before the war. 



( 4- ) 



ClJe 3[trgl of "Battle 5)oHoto. 

(war of the rebellion, 1864,) 

No, I won't — thar, now, so ! And it ain't nothin', — no ! 
And thar's nary to tell that you folks yer don't know ; 
And it's "Belle, tell us, do !" and it's "Belle, is it true?" 
And " Wot's this yer yarn of the Major and you ? " 
Till I'm sick of it all, — so I am, but I s'pose 
Thet is nothin' to you Well, then, Hsten ! yer goes ! 

It was after the fight, and around us all night 
Thar was poppin' and shootin' a powerful sight ; 
And the niggers had fled, and Aunt Chlo was abed, 
And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed : 
And I ran out at daybreak and nothin' was nigh 
But the growlin' of cannon low down in the sky. 

And I saw not a thing as I ran to the spring, 
But a splintered fence rail and a broken-down swing, 
And a bird said " Kerchee ! " as it sat on a tree, 
As if it was lonesome and glad to see me ; 
And I filled up my pail and was risin' to go, 
When up comes the Major a canterin' slow. 

When he saw me, he drew in his reins, and then threw 
On the gate-post his bridle^ and — what does he do 



42 The Idyl of Battle Hollow. 

But come down where I sat ; and he Ufted his hat, 
And he says — well, thar ain't any need to tell that — 
'Twas some foolishness, sure, but it 'mounted to this, 
Thet he asked for a drink, and he wanted — a kiss. 

Then I said (I was mad), " For the water, my lad, 
You're too big and must stoop ; for a kiss, it's as bad — 
You ain't near big enough." And I turned in a huff, 
When that Major he laid his white hand on my cufif. 
And he says, " You're a trump ! Take my pistol, don't fear ! 
But shoot the next man that insults you, my dear." 

Then he stooped to the pool, very quiet and cool, 
Leavin' me with that pistol stuck there like a fool, 
When thar flashed on my sight a quick glimmer of light 
From the top of the little stone-fence on the right. 
And I knew 'twas a rifle, and back of it all 
Rose the face of that bushwhacker, Cherokee Hall ! 

Then I felt in my dread that the moment the head 
Of the Major was lifted, the Major was dead j 
And I stood still and white, but Lord ! gals, in spite 
Of my care, that derned pistol went off in my fright ! 
Went off — true as gospil ! — and, strangest of all, 
It actooally injured that Cherokee Hall. 

Thet's all — now, go long. Yes, some folks thinks it's wrong. 
And thar's some wants to know to what side I belong ; 
But I says, " Served him right ! " and I go, all my might, 
In love or in war, for a fair stand-up fight ; 
And as for the Major — Sho ! gals, don't you know 
Thet — Lord ! — thar's his step in the garden below. 



( 43 ) 



CalDtoeH of ^pringfifelD* 

(new jersey, 1780.) 

Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the height 
Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right 
Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall — 
You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball 
Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow, 
Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. 

Nothing more, did I say ? Stay one moment ; you've heard 
Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the word 
Down at Springfield? What, No? Come — that's bad. Why 

he had 
All the Jerseys aflame ! And they gave him the name 
Of the "rebel high priest," He stuck in their gorge, 
For he loved the Lord God — and he hated King George ! 

He had cause, you might say ! When the Hessians that 

day 
Marched up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their way 
At the " farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms, 
Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew 
But God — and that one of the hireling crew 
Who fired the shot ! Enough ! — there she lay. 
And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away ! 



44 Caldwell of Spring fieldi 

Did he preach — did he pray ? Think of him as you stand 
By the old church to-day : — think of him and that band 
Of militant ploughboys ! See the smoke and the heat 
Of that reckless advance — of that straggling retreat ! 
Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view — 
And what could you, what should you, what would you do ? 

Why, just what he did ! They were left in the lurch 
For the want of more wadding. He ran to the church, 
Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the 

road 
With his arms full of hymn-books, and threw down his load 
At their feet ! Then above all the shouting and shots 
Rang his yoice — "Put Watts into 'em — Boys, give 'em 

Watts 1" . 

And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blow, 
Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. 
You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball— 
But not always a hero like this — and that's all. 



( 45 ) 



poem 

DELIVERED ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF CALI« 
FORNIA's admission into THE UNION. 

September <), 1864. 
We meet in peace, though from our native East 
The sun that sparkles on our birthday feast 
Glanced as he rose in fields whose dews were red 
With darker tints than those Aurora spread. 
Though shorn his rays — his welcome disc concealed 
In the dim smoke that veiled each battlefield, 
Still striving upward, in meridian pride. 
He climbed the walls that East and West divide — 
Saw his bright face flashed back from golden sand, 
And sapphire seas that lave the Western land. 

Strange was the contrast that such scenes disclose 
From his high vantage o'er eternal snows ; 
There War's alarm the brazen trumpet rings — 
Here his love-song the mailed cicala sings ; 
There bayonets glitter through the forest glades — 
Here yellow cornfields stack their peaceful blades ; 
There the deep trench where Valour finds a grave — 
Here the long ditch that curbs the peaceful wave ; 
There the bold sapper with his lighted train — 
Here the dark tunnel and its stores of gain ; 
Here the full harvest and the wain's advance — 
There the Grim Reaper and the ambulance. 



46 Poem. 

With scenes so adverse, what mysterious bond 
Links our fair fortunes to the shores beyond? 
Why come we here — last of a scattered fold — 
To pour new metal in the broken mould ? 
To yield our tribute, stamped with Caesar's face. 
To Caesar, stricken in the market-place ? 

Ah ! love of country is the secret tie 
That joins these contrasts 'neath one arching sky; 
Though brighter paths our peaceful steps explore^ 
We meet together at the Nation's door. 
War winds her horn, and giant cliffs go down 
Like the high walls that girt the sacred town. 
And bares the pathway to her throbbing heart, 
From clustered village and from crowded mart 

Part of God's providence it was to found 
A Nation's bulwark on this chosen ground — 
Not Jesuit's zeal nor pioneer's unrest 
Planted these pickets in the distant West ; 
But He who first the Nation's fate forecast 
Placed here His fountains sealed for ages past, 
Rock-ribbed and guarded till the coming time 
Should fit the people for their work sublime j 
When a new Moses with his rod of steel 
Smote the tall cliffs with one wide-ringing peal, 
And the old miracle in record told 
To the new Nation was revealed in gold. 

Judge not too idly that our toils are mean, 
Though no new levies marshal on our green ; 
Nor deem too rashly that our gains are small, 
Weighed with the prizes for which heroes fall 



Poem. 47 

See, where thick vapour wreathes the battle-line ; 
There Mercy follows with her oil and wine ; 
Or when brown Labour with its peaceful charm 
Stiffens the sinews of the Nation's arm. 



What nerves its hands to strike a deadlier blow 
And hurl its legions on the rebel foe ? 
Lo ! for each town new rising o'er our State 
See the foe's hamlet waste and desolate, 
While each new factory lifts its chimney tall, 
Like a fresh mortar trained on Richmond's wall. 

For this, oh ! brothers, swings the fruitful vine, 
Spread our broad pastures with their countless kine ; 
For this o'erhead the arching vault springs clear, 
Sunlit and cloudless for one half the year ; 
For this no snowflake, e'er so lightly pressed. 
Chills the warm impulse of our mother's breast. 

Quick to reply, from meadows brown and sere^ 
She thrills responsive to Spring's earliest tear ; 
Breaks into blossom, flings her loveliest rose 
Ere the white crocus mounts Atlantic snows ; 
And the example of her liberal creed 
Teaches the lesson that to-day we need. 

Thus ours the lot with peaceful, generous hand 
To spread our bounty o'er the suffering land ; 
As the deep cleft in Mariposa's wall 
Hurls a vast river splintering in its fall — 
Though the rapt soul who stands in awe below 
Sees but the arching of the promised bow — ' 
Lo ! the far streamlet drinks its dews unseen, 
And the whole valley makes a brighter green. 



( 48 ) 



sgfejBf 'Blanche ^ag0. 

And you are the poet, and so you want 

Something — what is it ? — a theme, a fancy ? 
Something or other the Muse won't grant 

In your old poetical necromancy ; 
Why one half your poets — you can't deny — 

Don't know the Muse when you chance to meet her, 
But sit in your attics and mope and sigh 
For a faineant goddess to drop from the sky, 
When flesh and blood may be standing by 

Quite at your service, should you but greet her. 

What if I told you my own romance ? 

Women are poets, if you so take them, 
One-third poet — the rest what chance 

Of man and marriage may choose to make them. 
Give me ten minutes before you go, — 

Here at the window we'll sit together. 
Watching the currents that ebb and flow ; 
Watching the world as it drifts below 
Up to the hot Avenue's dusty glow : 

Isn't it pleasant — this bright June weather ? 

Well, it was after the war broke out, 

And I was a school-girl fresh from Paris ; 

Papa had contracts, and roamed about, 
And I — did nothing — for I was an heiress. 



Miss Blmtche Says. 49 

Picked some lint, now I think ; perhaps 
Knitted some stocking — a dozen nearly; 

Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps ; 

Stood at fair tables and peddled traps 

Quite at a profit. The " shoulder-straps " 

Thought I was pretty. Ah, thank you ! really ? 

Still it was stupid. Rata-tat-tat ! 

Those were the sounds of that battle summer, 
Till the earth seemed a parchment round and flat, 

And every footfall the tap of a drummer ; 
And day by day down the Avenue went 

Cavalry, infantry, all together, 
Till my pitying angel one day sent 
My fate in the shape of a regiment. 
That halted, just as the day was spent. 

Here at our door in the bright June weather. 

None of your dandy warriors they, 

Men from the West, but where I know not ; 
Haggard and travel-stained, worn and grey, 

With never a" ribbon or lace or bow-knot : 
And I opened the window, and leaning there, 

I felt in their presence the free winds blowing ; 
My neck and shoulders and arms were bare — 
I did not dream that they might think me fair. 
But I had some flowers that night in my hair, 

And here, on my bosom, a red rose glowing. 

And I looked from the window along the line, 
Dusty and dirty and grim and solemn. 

Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine, 

And a dark face grew from the darkening column, 

VOL. I. D 



50 Miss Blanche Says. 

And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair, 

Till cheeks and shoulders burned all together, 
And the next I found myself standing there 
With my eyelids wet and my cheeks less fair, 
And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air. 
Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather. 

Then I drew back quickly : there came a cheer, 

A rush of figures, a noise and tussle, 
And then it was over, and high and clear 

My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle. 
Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried, 

And slowly and steadily, all together. 
Shoulder to shoulder and side to side. 
Rising and falling, and swaying wide. 
But bearing above them the rose, my pride, 

They marched away in the twilight weather. 

And I leaned from my window and watched my rose 

Tossed on the waves of th^ surging column, 
Warmed from above in the sunset glows, 

Borne frpm below by an impulse solemn. 
Then I shut the window. I heard no more 

Of my soldier friend, my flower neither, 
But lived my life as I did before. 
I did not go as a nurse to the war — 
Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore — 

So I didn't go to the hospital either. 

You smile, O poet, and what do you ? 

You lean from your window, and watch life's column 
Trampling and struggling through dust and dew. 

Filled with its purposes grave and solemn ; 



Mzss Blmiche Says, 5 1 

An act, a gesture, a face — who knows ? — 
Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you, 

And you pluck from your bosom the verse that grows, 

And down it flies like my red, red rose, 

And you sit and dream as away it goes, 

And think that your duty is done — now don't you ? 

I know your answer. I'm not yet through. 

Look at this photograph — '* In the Trenches ! " 
That dead man in the coat of blue 

Holds a withered rose in his hand. That clenches 
Nothing ! — except that the sun paints true, 

And a woman is sometimes prophetic-minded. 
And that's my romance. And, poet, you 
Take it and mould it to suit your view ; 
And who knows but you may find it too 

Come to your heart once more, as mine did. 



( 52 ) 



0n Arctic Hfeion* 

Where the short-legged Esquimaux 
Waddle in the ice and snow, 
And the playful Polar bear 
Nips the hunter unaware ; 
Where by day they track the ermine, 
And by night another vermin, — 
Segment of the frigid zone, 
Where the temperature alone 
Warms on St. Elias' cone ; 
Polar dock, where Nature slips 
From the ways her icy ships ; 
Land of fox and deer and sable, 
Shore end of our western cable, — 
Let the news that flying goes 
Thrill through all your arctic floes, 
And reverberate the boast 
From the cliffs off" Beechey's coast, 
Till the tidings, circling round 
Every bay of Norton Sound, 
Throw the vocal tide-wave back 
To the isles of Kodiac, 
Let the stately Polar bears 
Waltz around the pole in pairs, 
And the walrus, in his glee, 
Bare his tusk of ivory ; 



%!, 



An Arctic Vision. 53 

While the bold sea-unicorn 
Calmly takes an extra horn ; 
All ye Polar skies, reveal your 
Very rarest of parhelia ; 
Trip it all ye merry dancers, 
In the airiest of " Lancers ; " 
Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide, 
One inch farther to the tide, 
Nor in rash precipitation 
Upset Tyndall's calculation. 
Know you not what fate awaits you, 
Or to whom the future mates you ? 
All ye icebergs make salaam, — 
You belong to Uncle Sam ! 

On the spot where Eugene Sue 
Led his wretched Wandering Jew, 
Stands a form whose features strike 
Russ and Esquimaux alike. 
He it is whom Skalds of old 
In their Runic rhymes foretold ; 
Lean of flank and lank of jaw, 
See the real Northern Thor ! 
See the awful Yankee leering 
Ju^t across the Straits of Behring ; 
On the drifted snow, too plain. 
Sinks his fresh tobacco stain. 
Just beside the deep inden- 
Tation of his Number 10. 

Leaning on his icy hammer 
Stands the hero of this drama, 
And above the wild-duck's clamour, 
In his own peculiar grammar. 



54 ^^ Arctic Vision, 

With its linguistic disguises, 

Lo ! the Arctic prologue rises : — 

"Wa'll, I reckon 'tain't so bad, 

Seein' ez 'twas all they had ; 

True, the Springs are rather late, 

And early Falls predominate; 

But the ice crop 's pretty sure, 

And the air is kind o' pure ; 

'Tain't so very mean a trade, 

When the land is all surveyed. 

There's a right smart chance for fur-chase 

All along this recent purchase, 

And, unless the stories fail, 

Every fish from cod to whale ; 

Rocks, too ; mebbe quartz ; let's see, — 

'Twould be strange if there should be, — 

Seems I've heerd such stories told ; 

Eh ! — why, bless us, — yes, it's gold 1 " 

While the blows are falling thick 
From his California pick, 
You may recognise the Thor 
Of the vision that I saw, — 
Freed from legendary glamour, 
See the real magician's hammer, 



( 55 ) 



(a geographical survey, 1868.) 

Very fair and full of promise 
Lay the island of St Thomas : 
Ocean o'er its reefs and bars 
Hid its elem.ental scars ; 
Groves of cocoanut and guava 
Grew above its fields of lava. 
So the gem of the Antilles, — 
" Isles of Eden," where no ill is, — 
Like a great green turtle slumbered 
On the sea that it encumbered. 
Then said William Henry Seward, 
As he cast his eye to leeward, 
** Quite important to our commerce 
Is this island of St. Thomas." 

Said the Mountain ranges, " Thank'ee^ 
But we cannot stand the Yankee 
O'er our scars and fissures poring, 
In our very vitals boring. 
In our sacred caverns prying. 
All our secret problems trying, — 
Digging, blasting, with dynamit 
Mocking all our thunders ! Damn it ! 



56 SL Thomas. 

Other lands may be more civil, 
Bust our lava crust if we will ! " 



Said the Sea, its white teeth gnashing 
Through its coral-reef lips flashing, 
** Shall I let this scheming mortal 
Shut with stone my shining portal, 
Curb my tide and check my play, 
Fence with wharves my shining bay ? 
Rather let me be drawn out 
In one awful waterspout ! " 

Said the black-browed Hurricane, 
Brooding down the Spanish Main, 
*' Shall I see my forces, zounds ! 
Measured by square inch and pounds. 
With detectives at my back 
When I double on my track, 
And my secret paths made clear. 
Published o'er the hemisphere 
To each gaping, prying crew ? 
Shall I ? Blow me if I do ! " 

So the Mountains shook and thundered, 
And the Hurricane came sweeping, 
And the people stared and wondered 
As the Sea came on them leaping : 
Each, according to his promise, 
Made things lively at St. Thomas. 

Till one morn, when Mr. Seward 
Cast his weather eye to leeward. 
There was not an inch of dry land 
Left to mark his recent island. 



Sif. Thomas. 57 

Not a flagstaff or a sentry, 
Not a wharf or port of entry, — 
Only — to cut matters shorter — 
Just a patch of muddy water 
In the open ocean lying, 
And a gull above it flying. 



( 58 ) 



Dff ©carl)oroug{)» 

(SEPTEMBER 1 779.) 



*' Have a care ! " the bailiffs cried 
From their cockleshell that lay 
Off the frigate's yellow side, 
Tossing on Scarborough Bay, 
While the forty sail it convoyed on a bowline stretched 
away; 
" Take your chicks beneath your wings, 
And your claws and feathers spread, 
Ere the hawk upon them springs — 
Ere around Flamborough Head 
Swoops Paul Jones, the Yankee falcon, with his beak and 
talons red." 



II. 

How we laughed ! — my mate and I — 

On the " Bon Homme Richard's " deck, — 
As we saw that convoy fly 

Like a snow squall, till each fleck 
Melted in the twilight shadows of the coast-line, speck by 
speck ; 
And scuffling back to shore 
The Scarborough bailiffs sped, 



Off Scarborough. 5 9 

As the " Richard," with a roar 
Of her cannon round the Head, 
Crossed her royal yards and signalled to her consort : 
"Chase ahead!" 



III. 

But the devil seize Landais 

In that consort ship of France ! 
For the shabby, lubber way 

That he worked the " Alliance " 
In the offing, — nor a broadside fired save to our mis- 
chance ! — 
When tumbling to the van. 

With his battle-lanterns set, 
Rose the burly Englishman 

'Gainst our hull as black as jet — 
Rode the yellow-sided "Serapis," and all alone we met! 



IV. 

All alone — though far at sea 

Hung his consort, rounding to ; 
All alone — though on our lee 

Fought our " Pallas," stanch and true ! 
For the first broadside around us both a smoky circle 
drew: 
And, like champions in a ring, 

There was cleared a little space- 
Scarce a cable's length to swing — 
Ere we grappled in embrace, 
All the world shut out around us, and we only face to 
face ! 



6o Off Scarborough. 



V. 

Then awoke all hell below 

From that broadside, doubly curst, 
For our long eighteens in row 

Leaped the first discharge and burst ! 
And on deck our men came pouring, fearing their own 
guns the worst. 
And as dumb we lay, till, through 
Smoke and flame and bitter cry, 
Hailed the " Serapis " — " Have you 
Struck your colours ? " Our reply, 
"We have not yet begun to fight ! " went shouting to the 
sky! 



VI. 

Roux of Brest, old fisher, lay 

Like a herring gasping here; 
Bunker of Nantucket Bay, 

Blown from out the port, dropped sheer 
Half a cable's length to leeward ; yet we faintly raised a cheer 
As with his own right hand, 

Our Commodore made fast 
The foeman's head-gear and 
The " Richard's" mizzen-mast, 
And in that death-lock clinging held us there from first to 
last! 



VII. 

Yet the foeman, gun on gun, 
Through the " Richard " tore a road— 



Off Scarborough. 6i 

With his gunners' rammers run 
Through our ports at every load, 
Till clear the blue beyond us through our yawning timbers 
showed. 
Yet with entrails torn we clung 
Like the Spartan to our fox, 
And on deck no coward tongue 
Wailed the enemy's hard knocks, 
Nor that all below us trembled Uke a wreck upon the rocks. 



VIII. 

Then a thought rose in my brain, 

As through Channel mists the sun. 
From our tops a fire like rain 
Drove below decks every one 
Of the enemy's ship's company to hide or work a gun, 
And that thought took shape as I 

On the " Richard's " yard lay out, 
That a man might do and die, 
If the doing brought about 
Freedom for his home and country, and his messmates' 
cheering shout ! 

IX. 

Then I crept out in the dark 

Till I hung above the hatch 
Of the " Serapis " — a mark 

For her marksmen ! — with a match 
And a hand-grenade, but lingered just a moment more to 
snatch 
One last look at sea and sky ! 
At the lighthouse on the hill ! 



6 2 Off Scarborough, 

At the harvest-moon on high ! 
And our pine flag fluttering still ; 
Then turned and down her yawning throat I launched that 
devil's pill ! 

X. 

Then a blank was all between 

As the flames around me spun ! 
. Had I fired the magazine ? 
Was the victory lost or won ? 
Nor knew I till the fight was o'er but half my work was 
done: 
For I lay among the dead 

In the cockpit of our foe, 
With a roar above my head — 
Till a trampling to and fro, 
And a lantern showed my mate's face, and I knew what 
now you know 1 



SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS. 



( 65 ) 



Cfje spiracle of patire 3unipero» 

This is the tale that the Chronicle 
Tells of the wonderful miracle 
Wrought by the pious Padre Serro, 
The very reverend Junipero. 

The heathen stood on his ancient mound, 

Looking over the desert bound 

Into the distant, hazy South, 

Over the dusty and broad champaign, 

WherCy with many a gaping mouth 

And fissure, cracked by the fervid drouth, 

For seven months had the wasted plain 

Known no moisture of dew or rain. 

The wells were empty and choked with sand ; 

The rivers had perished from the land ; 

Only the sea-fogs to and fro 

Slipped like ghosts of the streams below. 

Deep in its bed lay the river's bones, 

Bleaching in pebbles and milk-white stones, 

And tracked o'er the desert faini and far, 

Its ribs shone bright on each sandy bar. 

Thus they stood as the sun went down 
Over the foot-hills bare and brown ; 

VOL. I. E 



66 The Miracle of Padre Jttnipero. 

Thus they looked to the South, wherefrom 

The pale-face medicine-man should come, 

Not in anger or in strife, 

But to bring — so ran the tale — 

The welcome springs of eternal life, 

The living waters that should not fail. 

Said one, " He will come like Manitou, 
Unseen, unheard, in the falling dew." 
Said another, " He will come full soon 
Out of the round-faced watery moon." 
And another said, " He is here !" and lo,— J 
Faltering, staggering, feeble and slow, — 
Out from the desert's blinding heat 
The Padre dropped at the heathen's feeL 
They stood and gazed for a little space 
Down on his pallid and careworn face, 
And a smile of scorn went round the band 
As they touched alternate with foot and hand 
This mortal waif, that the outer space 
Of dim mysterious sky and sand ' 

Flung with 3o little of Christian grace 
Down on their barren, sterile strand. 

Said one to him : "It seems thy God 

Is a very pitiful kind of God ; 

tie could not shield thine aching eyes 

From the blowing desert sands that rise, 

Nor turn aside from thy old grey head 

The glittering blade that is brandished 

By the sun He set in the heavens high ; 

He could not moisten thy lips when dry; 

The desert fire is in thy brain ; 

Thy limbs are racked with the fever-pain : 



The Miracle of Padre Jtuiipero. 67 

If this be the grace He showeth thee 

Who art His servant, what may we, 

Strange to His ways and His commands, 

Seek at His unforgiving hands ? " 

"Drink but this cup," said the Padre, straight, 

" And thou shalt know whose mercy bore 

These aching Hmbs to your heatlien door, 

And purged my soul of its gross estate. 

Drink in His name, and thou shalt see 

The hidden depths of this mystery. 

Drink ! " and he held the cup. One blow 

From the heathen dashed to the ground below 

The sacred cup that the Padre bore, 

And the thirsty soil drank the precious store 

Of sacramental and holy wine. 

That emblem and consecrated sign 

And blessed symbol of blood divine. 

Then, says the legend (and they who doubt 

The same as heretics be accurst). 

From the dry and feverish soil leaped out 

A living fountain ; a well-spring burst 

Over the dusty and broad champaign. 

Over the sandy and sterile plain, 

Till the granite ribs and the milk-white stones 

That lay in the valley — the scattered bones — 

Moved in the river and lived again ! 

Such was the wonderful miracle 

Wrought by the cup of wine that fell 

From the hands of the pious Padre Serro, 

The very reverend Junipero. 



( 68 ) 



WontiuM Spring of ®m 



Of all the fountains that poets sing, — 

Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring ; 

Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth ; 

Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth ; 

In short, of all the springs of Time 

That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme, 

That ever were tasted, felt, or seen, — 

There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin. 

Anno Domini Eighteen-seven, 

Father Dominguez (now in heaven, — 

Obiit, Eighteen twenty-seven) 

Found the spring, and found it, too, 

By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe ; 

For his beast — a descendant of Balaam's ass — 

Stopped on the instant, and would not pass. 

The Padre thought the omen good, 

And bent his lips to the trickling flood ; 

Then — as the Chronicles declare. 

On the honest faith of a true believer — 

His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare. 

Filled like a withered russet-pear 

In the vacuum of a glass receiver, 



The Wonderftd Spring of San Joaquin. 69 

And the snows that seventy winters bring 
Melted away in that magic spring. 



Such, at least, was the wondrous news 
The Padre brought into Santa Cruz. 
The Church, of course, had its own views 
Of who were worthiest to use 
The magic spring ; but the prior claim 
Fell to the aged, sick, and lame. 
Far and wide the people came : 
Some from the healthful Aptos Creek 
Hastened to bring their helpless sick ; 
Even the fishers of rude Soquel 
Suddenly found they were far from well ; 
The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo 
Said, in fact, they had never been so : 
And all were ailing, — strange to say, — 
From Pescadero to Monterey. 



Over the mountain they poured in, 
With leathern bottles and bags of skin j 
Through the canons a motley throng 
Trotted, hobbled, and limped along. 
The Fathers gazed at the moving scene 
With pious joy and with souls serene ; 
And then — a result perhaps foreseen — 
They laid out the Mission of San Joaquia 



Not in the eyes of faith alone 
The good effects of the water shone ; 
But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear, 
Of rough vaquero and muleteer ; 



70 The Wonderful Spring of San Joaquin. 

Angular forms were rounded out, 
Limbs grew supple and waists grew stout ; 
And as for the girls — for miles about 
They had no equal ! To this day, 
From Pescadero to Monterey, 
You'll still find eyes in which are seen 
The liquid graces of San Joaquin. 



There is a limit to human bliss, 

And the Mission of San Joaquin had this ; 

None went abroad to roam or stay, 

But they fell sick in the queerest way, — 

A singular vialadie du pays, 

With gastric symptoms : so they spent 

Their days in a sensuous content. 

Caring little for things unseen 

Beyond their bowers of living green, — 

Beyond the mountains that lay between 

The world and the Mission of San Joaquin. 



Winter passed and the summer came ; 
The trunks of madroTio, all aflame. 
Here and there through the underwood 
Like pillars of fire starkly stood. 
All of the breezy solitude 

Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay 
And resinous odours mixed and blended, 

And dim and ghost-like, far away. 
The smoke of the burning woods ascended. 
Then of a sudden the mountains swam, 
The rivers piled their floods in a dam, 
The ridge above Los Gatos Creek 



The Wonderful Spring of San Joaquin. 7 1 

Arched its spine in a feline fashion ; 
The forests waltzed till they grew sick, 

And Nature shook in a speechless passion ; 
And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen, 
The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin 
Vanished, and never more was seen 1 , 



Two days passed : the Mission folk 

Out of their rosy dream awoke ; 

Some of them looked a trifle white, 

But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright 

Three days : there was sore distress, 

Headache, nausea, giddiness. 

Four days : faintings, tenderness 

Of the mouth and fauces ; and in less 

Than one week, — here the story closes ; 

We won't continue the prognosis, — 

Enough that now no trace is seen 

Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin. 



MORAL. 

You see the point ? Don't be too quick 
To break bad habits : better stick. 
Like the Mission folk, to your arsenic. 



( 72 ) 



(heard at the mission DOLORES, 1 868.) 

Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music 

Still fills the wide expanse, 
Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present 

With colour of romance ! 

I hear your call, and see the sun descending 
On rock and wave and sand, 

As down the coast the Mission voices, blending, 
Girdle the heathen land. 

Within the circle of your incantation 
No blight nor mildew falls ; 

Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambition 
Passes those airy walls. 

Borne on the swell of your long waves receding, 
I touch the farther Past, — 

I see the dying glow of Spanish glory, 
The sunset dream and last ! 

Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers, 

The white Presidio ; 
The swart commander in his leathern jerkin. 

The priest in stole of snow. 



The Angelus. j^) 

Once more I see Portala's cross uplifting 

Above the setting sun ; 
And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting 

The freighted galleon. 

O solemn bells ! whose consecrated masses 

Recall the faith of old,— 
O tinkling bells ! that lulled with twilight music 

The spiritual fold ! 

Your voices break and falter in the darkness, — 

Break, falter, and are still ; 
And veiled and mystic, like the Host descending, 

The sun sinks from the hill I 



( 74 ) 



Concepcion tie HrguellD* 

(presidio DE SAN FRANCISCO, 180O.) 



Looking seaward, o'er the sandhills stands the fortress, 

old and quaint, 
By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint, — 

Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apostate to the creed, . 
On whose youthful walls the Padre saw the angel's golden 
reed ; 

All its trophies long since scattered, all its blazon brushed 

away ; 
And the flag that flies above it but a triumph of to-day. 

Never scar of siege or battle challenges the wandering 

eye — 
Never breach of warlike onset holds the curious passer-by ; 

Only one sweet human fancy interweaves its threads of gold 
With the plain and home-spun present, and a love that ne'er 
grows old : 



Concepcion de Arguello. 75 

Only one thing holds its crumbling walls above the meaner 

dust, — 
Listen to the simple story of a woman's love and trust. 



11. 



Count von Resanoflf, the Russian, envoy of the mighty Czar, 
Stood beside the deep embrasures where the brazen cannon 
are; 

He with grave provincial magnates long had held serene 

debate 
On the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state ; 

He from grave provincial magnates oft had turned to talk 

apart 
With the Commandante's daughter on the questions of the 

heart, 

Until points of gravest import yielded slowly one by one, 
And by Love was consummated what Diplomacy begun ; 

Till beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon 

are, 
He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar ; 

Till beside the brazen cannon the betrothed bade adieu, 
And, from sallyport and gateway, north the Russian eagles 
flew. 



76 Concepcion de Arguello. 



III. 



Long beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon 

are, 
Did they wait the promised bridegroom and the answer of 

the Czar ; 

Day by day on wall and bistion beat the hollow, empty 

breeze, — 
Day by day the sunlight glittered on the vacant, smiUng 

seas ; 

Week by week the near hills whitened in their dusty leather 

cloaks, — 
Week by week the far hills darkened from the fringing plain 

of oaks , 

Till the rains came, and far-breaking, on the fierce south- 
wester tost. 

Dashed the whole long coast with colour, and then vanished 
and were lost. 

So each year the seasons shifted, — wet and warm and drear 

and dry ; 
Half a year of clouds and flowers, — half a year of dust and 

sky. 

Still it brought no ship nor message, — brought no tidings, ill 

or meet. 
For the statesmanlike Commander, for the daughter fair 

and sweet. 



Concepcion de Arguello. *]"] 

Yet she heard the varying message, voiceless to all ears 

beside : 
" He will come," the flowers whispered ; " Come no more," 

the dry hills sighed. 



Still she found him with the waters lifted by the morning 

breeze, — 
Still she lost him with the folding of the great white-tented 

seas : 



Until hollows chased the dimples from her cheeks of olive 

brown, 
And at times a swift, shy moisture dragged the long sweet 

lashes down ; 



Or the small mouth curved and quivered as for some denied 

caress. 
And the fair young brow was knitted in an infantine distress. 

Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon 

are, 
Comforted the maid with proverbs, — wisdom gathered from 
_ afar ; 

Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each 
As a pebble worn and polished in the current of his speech : 

"'Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as far 

as he ; ' 
• Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree ; ' 



78 Concepcion de Arguello. 

" ' He that getteth himself honey, though a clown, he shall 

have flies ; ' 
* In the end God grinds the miller ; ' ' In the dark the mole 

has eyes ; ' 

" ' He whose father is Alcalde of his trial hath no fear,' — 
And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his con- 
duct clear." 

Then the voice sententious faltered, and the wisdom it would 

teach 
Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech ; 

And on " Concha," " Conchitita," and " Conchita " he would 

dwell 
With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so well. 

So with proverbs and caresses, half in faith and half in doubt, 
Every day some hope was kindled, flickered, faded, and 
went out. 



IV. 

Yearly, down the hillside sweeping, came the stately caval- 
cade. 
Bringing revel to vaquero, joy and comfort to each maid ; 

Bringing days of formal visit, social feast and rustic sport ; 
Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love-making in the court. 

Vainly then at Concha's lattice, vainly as the idle wind, 
Rose the thin high Spanish tenor that bespoke the youth 
too kind ; 



Concepcion de Arguello. 79 

Vainly, leaning from their saddles, caballeros, bold and 

fleet, 
Plucked for her the buried chicken from beneath their 

mustang's feet ; 

So in vain the barren hillsides with their gay scrapes blazed, 
Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying hoofs 
had raised. 

Then the drum called from the rampart, and once more, with 

patient mien. 
The Commander and his daughter each took up the dull 

routine, — 

Each took up the petty duties of a life apart and lone, 
Till the slow years wrought a music in its dreary monotone. 



Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle 

breeze, 
Since the Russian eagle fluttered from the California seas ; 

Forty years on wall and bastion wrought its slow but sure 

decay, 
And St. George's cross was lifted in the port of Monterey ; 

And the citadel was lighted, and the hall was gaily drest. 
All to honour Sir George Simpson, famous traveller and 
guest. 

Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set, 
And exchanged congratulations with the English baronet ; 



8o Concepcion de Arguello. 

Till, the formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and 

wine. 
Some one spoke of Concha's lover, — heedless of the warning 

sign. 

Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson : " Speak no ill of 

him, I pray — 
He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this day. 

" Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a frac- 
tious horse. 

Left a sweetheart, too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, of 
course ! 

"Lives she yet?" A death-like silence fell on banquet, 

guests, and hall, 
And a trembling figure rising fixed the awestruck gaze of 

alL 

Two black eyes in darkened orbits gleamed beneath the 

nun's white hood ; 
Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken where 

it stood. 

" Lives she yet ? " Sir George repeated. All were hushed as 

Concha drew 
Closer yet her nun's attire. " Senor, pardon, she died too ! " 



( 8i 



"JFot tl)e King." 

(northern MEXICO, 1640.) 

As you look from the plaza at Leon west 

You can see her house, but the view is best 

From the porch of the church where she lies at rest, 

Where much of her past still lives, I think, 
In the scowling brows and sidelong blink 
Of the worshipping throng that rise or sink 

To the waxen saints that, yellow and lank, 
Lean out from their niches, rank on rank, 
With a bloodless Saviour on either flank; 

In the gouty pillars, whose cracks begin 

To show the adobe core within, — 

A soul of earth in a whitewashed skin. 

And I think that the moral of all, you'll say, 
Is the sculptured legend that molds away 
On a tomb in the choir : " For el Rey." 

" For el Rey ! " Well, the king is gone 

Ages ago, and the Hapsburg one 

Shot — but the Rock of the Church lives on. 

VOL. I. F 



82 ^^For the King. 

" Por el Rey ! " What matters, indeed, 

If king or president succeed 

To a country haggard with sloth and greed, 

As long as one granary is fat, 

And yonder priest, in a shovel hat, 

Peeps out from the bin like a sleek brown rat ? 

What matters ? Nought, if it serves to bring 
The legend nearer, — no other thing, — 
We'll spare the moral, " Live the king ! " 

Two hundred years ago, they say, 
The Viceroy, Marquis of Monte-Rey, 
Rode with his retinue that way ; 

Grave, as befitted Spain's grandee, 
Grave, as the substitute should be 
Of His Most Catholic Majesty ; 

Yet, from his black plume's curving grace 
To his slim black gauntlet's smaller space, 
Exquisite as a piece of lace ! 

Two hundred years ago — e'en so — 

The Marquis stopped where the lime-trees blow, 

While Leon's seneschal bent him low. 

And begged that the Marquis would that night take 

His humble roof for the royal sake, 

And then, as the custom demanded, spake 

The usual wish, that his guest would hold 

The house, and all that it might enfold. 

As his — with the bride scarce three days old. 



''For the King!' ^2> 

Be sure that the Marquis, in his place, 
Replied to all with the measured grace 
Of chosen speech and unmoved face ; 

Nor raised his head till his black plume swept 
The hem of the lady's robe, who kept 
Her place, as her husband backward stept. 

And then (I know not how nor why) 
A subtle flame in the lady's eye — 
Unseen by the courtiers standing by — 

Burned through his lace and titled wreath, 
Burned through his body's jewelled sheath, 
Till it touched the steel of the man beneath ! 

(And yet, mayhap, no more was meant 
Than to point a well-worn compliment, 
And the lady's beauty, her worst intent.) 

Howbeit, the Marquis bowed again : 
" Who rules with awe well serveth Spain, 
But best whose law is love made plain." 

Be sure that night no pillow pressed 
The seneschal, but with the rest 
Watched, — as was due a royal guest, — 

Watched from the wall till he saw the square 
Fill with the moonlight, white and bare, — 
Watched till he saw two shadows fare 

Out from his garden, where the shade 
That the old church tower and belfry made 
Like a benedictory hand was laid. 



84 ^'For the King!' 

Few words spoke the seneschal as he turned 

To his nearest sentry : " These monks have learned 

That stolen fruit is sweetly earned. 

" Myself shall punish yon acolyte 

Who gathers my garden grapes by night ; 

Meanwhile, wait thou till the morning light." 

Yet not till the sun was riding high 

Did the sentry meet his commander's eye, 

Nor then till the Viceroy stood by. 

To the lovers of grave formalities 

No greeting was ever so fine, I wis, 

As this host's and guest's high courtesies ! 

The seneschal feared, as the wind was west, 
A blast from Morena had chilled his rest ; 
The Viceroy languidly confessed 

That cares of state, and — he dared to say — 
Some fears that the King could not repay 
The thoughtful zeal of his host, some way 

Had marred his rest. Yet he trusted much 
None shared his wakefulness ; though such 
Indeed might be ! If he dared to touch 

A theme so fine — the bride, perchance, 
Still slept ! At least, they missed her glance 
To give this greeting countenance. 

Be sure that the seneschal, in turn. 

Was deeply bowed with the grave concern 

Of the painful news his guest should learn : 



''For the King." 85 

"Last night, to her father's dying bed 
By a priest was the lady summoned ; 
Nor know we yet how well she sped, 

" But hope for the best." The grave Viceroy 
(Though grieved his visit had such alloy) 
Must still wish the seneschal great joy 

Of a bride so true to her filial trust ! 
Yet now, as the day waxed on, they must 
To horse, if they'd 'scape the noonday dust. 

"Nay," said the seneschal, "at least, 
To mend the news of this funeral priest, 
Myself shall ride as your escort east." 

The Viceroy bowed. Then turned aside 
To his nearest follower : " With me ride — 
You and Eelipe — on either side. 

" And list ! Should anything me befall, 
Mischance of ambush or musket-ball, 
Cleave to his saddle yon seneschal ! 

"No more." Then gravely in accents clear 
Took formal leave of his late good cheer ; 
Whiles the seneschal whispered a musketeer, 

Carelessly stroking his pommel top : 
" If from the saddle ye see me drop, 
Riddle me quickly yon solemn fop ! " 

So these, with many a compliment. 
Each on his own dark thought intent, 
With grave politeness onward went, 



86 ''For the King:' 

Riding high, and in sight of all, 
Viceroy, escort, and seneschal, 
Under the shade of the Almandral ; 

Holding their secret hard and fast, 
Silent and grave they ride at last 
Into the dusty travelled Past. 

Even like this they passed away 
Two hundred years ago to-day. 
What of the lady ? Who shall say ? 

Do the souls of the dying ever yearn 

To some favoured spot for the dust's return- 

For the homely peace of the family urn ? 

I know not. Yet did the seneschal, 
Chancing in after years to fall 
Pierced by a Flemish musket-ball,. 

Call to his side a trusty friar, 

And bid him swear, as his last desire, 

To bear his corse to San Pedro's choir 

At Leon, where 'neath a shield azure 
Should his mortal frame find sepulture ; 
This much, for the pains Christ did endure. 

Be sure that the friar loyally 
Fulfilled his trust by land and sea, 
Till the spires of Leon silently 

Rose through the green of the Almandral, 

As if to beckon the seneschal 

To his kindred dust 'neath the choir wall. 



''For the King." Sy 

I wot that the saints on either side 

Leaned from their niches open-eyed 

To see the doors of the church swing wide — 

That the wounds of the Saviour on either flank 
Bled fresh, as the mourners, rank by rank, 
Went by with the coffin, clank on clank. 

For why ? When they raised the marble door 
Of the tomb, untouched for years before, 
The friar swooned on the choir floor ; 

For there, in her laces and festal dress. 
Lay the dead man's wife, her loveliness 
Scarcely changed by her long duress ; 

As on the night she had passed away — 

Only that near her a dagger lay. 

With the written legend, " For el Rey." 

What was their greeting — the groom and bride, 
They whom that steel and the years divide ? 
I know not. Here they lie side by side. 

Side by side ! Though the king has his way, 
Even the dead at last have their day. 
Make you the moral. " Por el Rey ! " 



C 88 ) 



Eamom 

(rEFUGIO mine, northern MEXICO.) 

Drunk and senseless in his place, 

Prone and sprawling on his face, 
More like brute than any man 
Alive or dead, — 

By his great pump out of gear, 

Lay the peon engineer, 

Waking only just to hear, 
Overhead, 

Angiy tones that called his name, 

Oaths and cries of bitter blame — 
Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled ! 

" To the man who'll bring to me," 

Cried Intendant Harry Lee, — 
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine, — 

" Bring the sot alive or dead, 

I will give to him," he said, 

"Fifteen huvAxed pesos down. 

Just to set the rascal's crown 
Underneath this heel of mine : 
Since but death 

Deserves the man whose deed, 

Be it vice or want of heed, 



Ramon. 89 

Stops the pumps that give us breath, — 
Stops the pumps that suck the death 
From the poisoned lower levels of the mine ! " 



No one answered ; for a cry 
From the shaft rose up on high, 
And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below, 
Came the miners each, the bolder 
Mounting on the weaker's shoulder, 
Grappling, clinging to their hold or 

Letting go, 
As the weaker gasped and fell 
From the ladder to the well, — 
To the poisoned pit of hell 

Down below ! 

" To the man who sets them free," 
Cried the foreman, Harry Lee, — 

Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine, — 
" Brings them out and sets them free, 
I will give that man," said he, 
" Twice that sum, who with a rope 
Face to face with Death shall cope. 
Let him come who dares to hope ! " 
'* Hold your peace ! " some one replied. 
Standing by the foreman's side ; 

** There has one already gone, whoe'er he be ! " 

Then they held their breath with awe, 
Pulling on the rope, and saw 
Fainting figures reappear. 
On the black rope swinging clear, 
Fastened by some skilful hand from below ; 



90 Ramon. 

Till a score the level gained, 
And but one alone remained, — 
He the hero and the last, 
He whose skilful hand made fast 
The long line that brought them back to hope and 
cheer ! 

Haggard, gasping, down dropped he 
At the feet of Harry Lee, — 
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine. 
" I have come," he gasped, " to claim 
Both rewards. Senor, my name 

Is Ramon ! 
I'm the drunken engineer, 
I'm the coward, Senor — " Here 
He fell over, by that sign, 

Dead as stone ! 



( 91 ) 



^on Diego of t{)e ^out{)» 

(refectory, mission SAN GABRIEL, 1 869.) 

Good ! — said the Padre, — believe me still, 
" Don Giovanni," or what you will, 
The type's eternal ! We knew him here 
As Don Diego del Sud. I fear 
The story's no new one ! Will you hear ? 

One of those spirits you can't tell why 

God has permitted. Therein I 

Have the advantage, for / hold 

That wolves are sent to the purest fold, 

And we'd save the wolf if we'd get the lamb. 

You're no believer ? Good ! I am. 

Well, for some purpose, I grant you dim, 
The Don loved women, and they loved him. 
Each thought herself his hs^ love ! Worst, 
Many believed that they were \ii% first ! 
And, such are these creatures since the Fall, 
The very doubt had a charm for all ! 

You laugh ! You are young, but /—indeed 
I have no patience . . . To proceed — 
You saw, as you passed through the upper town, 
The Eucinal where the road goes down 



92 Don Diego of the South. 

To San Felipe ! There one morn 

They found Diego, — his mouth torn, 

And as many holes through his doublet's band 

As there were wronged husbands — you understand ! 

"Dying," so said the gossips. . " Dead " 

Was what the friars who found him said. 

May be. Qiden sahe ? Who else should know — 

It was a hundred years ago. 

There was a funeral. Small indeed — 

Private. What would you ? To proceed : — 

Scarcely the year had flown. One night 
The Commandante awoke in fright, 
Hearing below his casement's bar 
The well-known twang of the Don's guitar ; 
And rushed to the window, just to see 
His wife a-swoon on the balcony. 

One week later, Don Juan Ramirez 
Found his own daughter, the Dona Inez, 
Pale as a ghost, leaning out to hear ■ 
The song of that phantom cavalier. 
Even Alcalde Pedro Bias 
Saw, it was said, through his niece's glass, 
The shade of Diego twice repass. 

What these gentlemen each confessed 
Heaven and the Church only knows. At best 
The case was a bad one. How to deal 
With Sin as a Ghost, they couldn't but feel 
Was an awful thing. Till a certain Fray 
Humbly offered to show the way. 



Don Diego of the South. 93 

And the way was this. Did I say before 
That the Fray was a stranger ? No, Senor ? 
Strange ! very strange ! I should have said 
That the very week that the Don lay dead 
He came among us. Bread he broke 
Silent, nor ever to one he spoke. 
So he had vowed it ! Below his brows 
His face was hidden. There are such vows ! 



Strange ! are they not ? You do not use 
Snuff? A bad habit ! 



Well, the views 
Of the Fray was this : That the penance done 
By the caballeros was right ; but one 
Was due from the cause, and that, in brief, 
Was Donna Dolores Gomez, chief, 
And Inez, Sanchicha, Concepcion, 
And Carmen — Well, half the girls in town 
On his tablets the Friar had written down. 

These were to come on a certain day 
And ask at the hands of the pious Fray 
For absolution. That done, small fear 
But the shade of Diego would disappear. 

They came ; each knelt in her turn and place 
To the pious Fray with his hidden face 
And voiceless lips, and each again 
Took back her soul freed from spot or stain, 
Till the Dona Inez, with eyes downcast 
And a tear on their fringes, knelt her last. 



94 Don Diego of the South. 

And then — perhaps that her voice was low 
From fear or from shame^the monks said so — 
But the Fray leaned forward, when, presto ! all 
Were thrilled by a scream, and saw her fall 
Fainting beside the confessional. 

And so was the ghost of Diego laid 
As the Fray had said. Never more his shade 
Was seen at San Gabriel's Mission. Ah ! 
The girl interests you ? I dare say ! 
"Nothing," said she, when they brought her to— 
" Only a faintness ! " They spoke more true 
Who said 'twas a stubborn soul. But then — 
Women are women and men are men ! 

So, to return. As I said before, 

Having got the wolf, by the same high law 

We saved the lamb in the wolfs own jaw, 

And that's my moral. The tale, I fear, 

But poorly told. Yet it strikes me here 

Is stuff for a moral. What's your view ? 

You smile, Don Pancho, — Ah ! that's like you I 



( 95 ) 



Ht tl)e Ipacientia* 

Know I not whom thou mayst be 

Carved upon this olive tree — 

" Manuela of La Torre," 

For around on broken walls 

Summer sun and Spring rain falls, 

And in vain the low wind calls 

" Manuela of La Torre." 

Of that song no words remain 

But the musical refrain : 
" Manuela of La Torre." 
Yet at night, when winds are still, 
Tinkles on the distant hill 
A guitar, and words that thrill 

Tell to me the old, old story — . 
Old when first thy charms were sung, 
Old when these old walls were young, 
" Manuela of La Torre." 



( 96 ) 



JFriar PetirD'0 MU. 

It was the morning season of the year ; 

It was the morning era of the land ; 
The watercourses rang full loud and clear; 

Portala's cross stood where Portala's hand 
Had planted it when Faith was taught by Fear, 

When monks and missions held the sole command 
Of all that shore beside the peaceful sea, 
Where spring-tides beat their long-drawn reveille. 

Out of the Mission of San Luis Rey, 

All in that brisk, tumultuous spring weather, 

Rode Friar Pedro, in a pious way, 

With six dragoons in cuirasses of leather, 

Each armed alike for either prayer or fray, 

Handcuffs and missals they had slung together; 

And as in aid the gospel truth to scatter 

Each swung a lasso — alias a "riata." 

In sooth, that year the harvest had been slack, 
The crop of converts scarce worth computation ; 

Some souls were lost, whose owners had turned back 
To save their bodies frequent flagellation ; 

And some preferred the songs of birds, alack ! 
To Latin matins and their soul's salvation, 

And thought their own wild whoopings were less dreary 

Than Father Pedro's droning ^nise-yere. 



Friar Pedrds Ride. 97 

To bring them back to matins and to prime, 
To pious works and secular submission, 

To prove to them that liberty was crime, — 
This was, in fact, the Padre's present mission ; 

To get new souls perchance at the same time. 
And bring them to a " sense their condition " — 

That easy phrase, which, in the past and present, 

Means making that condition most unpleasant. 

He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow ; 

He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill ; 
He saw the gopher working in his burrow ; 

He saw the squirrel scampering at his will ; — 
He saw all this and felt no doubt a thorough 

And deep conviction of God's goodness j still 
He failed to see that in His glory He 
Yet left the humblest of His creatures free. 



He saw the flapping crow, whose frequent note 
Voiced the monotony of land and sky. 

Mocking with graceless wing and rusty coat 
His priestly presence as he trotted by. 

He would have cursed the bird by bell and rote, 
But other game just then was in his eye — 

A savage camp, whose occupants preferred 

Their heathen darkness to the living Word. 

He rang his bell, and at the martial sound 

Twelve silver spurs their jingling rowels clashed 5 

Six horses sprang across the level ground 
As six dragoons in open order dashed ; 

Above their heads the lassos circled round, 
In every eye a pious fervour flashed ; 
vol.. I. o 



98 Friar Pedro s Ride. 

They charged the camp, and in one moment more 
They lassoed six and reconverted four. 

The Friar saw the conflict from a knoll, 

And sang Lans Deo and cheered on his men : 

" Well thrown, Bautista — that's another soul ; 
After him, Gomez — try it once again ; 

This way, Felipe — there the heathen stole ; 
Bones of St. Francis ! — surely that makes ten ; 

Te deum laudamus — but they're very wild ; 

Noil nobis dominus — all right, my child ! " 

When at that moment — as the story goes — 
A certain squaw, who had her foes eluded, 

Ran past the Friar — ^just before his nose. 

He stared a moment, and in silence brooded, 

Then in his breast a pious frenzy rose 

And every other prudent thought excluded ; 

He caught a lasso, and dashed in a canter 

After that Occidental Atalanta. 

High o'er his head he swirled the dreadful noose, 
But, as the practice was quite unfamiliar. 

His first cast tore Felipe's captive loose 
And almost choked Tiburcio Camilla, 

And might have interfered with that brave youth's 
Ability to gorge the tough tortilla ; 

But all things come by practice, and at last 

His flying slip-knot caught the maiden fast. 

Then rose above the plain a mingled yell 
Of rage and triumph — a demoniac whoop ; 

The Padre heard it Uke a passing knell, 

And would have loosened his unchristian loop ; 



Friar Pedro s Ride. 99 

But the tough raw-hide held the captive well, 
And held, alas ! too well the captor-dupe ; 
For with one bound the savage fled amain, 
Dragging horse, Friar, down the lonely plain. 

Down the arroyo, out across the mead, 
By heath and hollow, sped the flying maid, 

Dragging behind her still the panting steed 
And helpless Friar, who in vain essayed 

To cut the lasso or to check his speed. 
He felt himself beyond all human aid. 

And trusted to the saints — and, for that matter, 

To some weak spot in Felipe's riata. 

Alas ! the lasso had been duly blessed, 

And, like baptism, held the flying wretch — 

A doctrine that the priest had oft expressed — 
Which, like the lasso, might be made to stretch " 

But would not break ; so neither could divest 
Themselves of it, but, like some z^iiMl fetch^ 

The holy Friar had to recognise 

The image of his fate in heathen guise. 

He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow ; 

He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill ; 
He saw the gopher standing in his burrow ; 

He saw the squirrel scampering at his will ; — 
He saw all this, and felt no doubt how thorough 

The contrast was to his condition ; still 
The squaw kept onward to the sea, till night 
And the cold sea-fog hid them both from sight.. 

The morning came above the serried coast, 
Lighting the snow-peaks with its beacon fires, 



loo Friar Pedro s Ride. 

Driving before it all the fleet-winged host 
Of chattering birds above the Mission spires, 

Filling the land with light and joy — but most 
The savage woods with all their leafy lyres ; 

In pearly tints and opal flame and fire 

The morning came, but not the holy Friar. 

Weeks passed away. In vain the Fathers sought 
Some trace or token that might tell his story j 

Some thought him dead, or, like Elijah," caught 
Up to the heavens in a blaze of glory. 

In this surmise some miracles were wrought 
On his account, and souls in purgatory 

Were thought to profit from his intercession ; 

In brief, his absence made a " deep impression." 

A twelvemonth passed ; the welcome Spring once more 
Made green the hills beside the white-faced Mission, 

Spread her bright dais by the western shore, 
And sat enthroned — a most resplendent vision. 

The heathen converts thronged the chapel door 
At morning mass, when, says the old tradition, 

A frightful whoop throughout the church resounded, 

And to their feet the congregation bounded. 

A tramp of hoofs upon the beaten course, 

Then came a sight that made the bravest quail : 

A phantom Friar on a spectre horse, 

Dragged by a creature decked with horns and tail. 

By the lone Mission, with the whirlwind's force, 
They madly swept, and left a sulphurous trail — 

And that was all — enough to tell the story 

And leave unblessed those souls in purgatory. 



Friar Pedro s Ride. loi 

And ever after, on that fatal day 

That Friar Pedro rode abroad lassoing, 

A ghostly couple came and went away 

With savage whoop and heathenish hallooing, 

Which brought discredit on San Luis Rey, 
And proved the Mission's ruin and undoing ; 

For ere ten years had passed, the squaw and Friar 

Performed to empty walls and fallen spire. 

The Mission is no more ; upon its walls 
The golden lizards slip, or breathless pause 

Still as the sunshine brokenly that falls 

Through crannied roof and spider-webs of gauze ; 

No more the bell its solemn warning calls — 
A holier silence thrills and overawes ; 

And the sharp hghts and shadows of to-day 

Outline the Mission of San Luis Rey. 



( I02 ) 



3In tl)e pi^sfion (FarDen^ 

(1865.) 

FATHER FELIPE. 

I SPEAK not the English well, but Pachita 
She speak for me ; is it not so, my Pancha ? 
Eh, little rogue ? Come, salute me the stranger 

Americano. 

Sir, in my country we say, " Where the heart is, 
There live the speech." Ah! you not understand? So! 
Pardon an old man, — what you call " ol fogy," — 

Padre Felipe ! 

Old, Sehor, old ! just so old as the Mission. 

You see that pear-tree ? How old you think, Seiior ? 

Fifteen year? Twenty? Ah, Senor, justyf^ 

Gone since I plant him ! 

You like the wine? It is some at the Mission, 
Made from the grape of the year Eighteen Hundred ; 
All the same time when the earthquake he come to 

San Juan Bautista. 

But Pancha is twelve, and she is the rose-tree ; 
And I am the olive, and this is the garden : 
And Pancha we say ; but her name is Francisca, 

Same like her mother. 



In the Mission Garden. 103 

Eh, you knew her ? No ? Ah ! it is a story ; 
But I speak not, like Pachita, the EngHsh : 
So ! if I try, you will sit here beside me, 

And shall not laugh, eh ? 

When the American come to the Mission, 
Many arrive at the house of Francisca : 
One, — he was fine man, — he buy the cattle 

Of Jose Castro. 

So ! he came much, and Francisca she saw him : 
And it was love, — and a very dry season ; 
And the pears bake on the tree, — and the rain come. 

But not Francisca. 
* 
Not for one year ; and one night I have walk much 
Under the olive-tree, when comes Francisca, — 
Comes to me here, with her child, this Francisca, — 

Under the olive-tree. 

Sir, it was sad j . . . but I speak not the English ; 
So ! . . . she stay here, and she wait for her husband : 
He come no more, and she sleep on the hillside ; 

There stands Pachita. 

Ah ! there's -the Angelus, Will you not enter ? 
Or shall you walk in the garden with Pancha ? 
Go, little rogue — sit — attend to the stranger. 

Adios, Senor. 

PACHITA {briskly). 
So, he's been telling that yarn about mother ! 
Bless you ! he tells it to every stranger : 
Folks about yer say the old man's my father; 

What's your opinion ? 



( 104 } 



In sixteen hundred and forty-one, 
The regular yearly galleon, 
Laden with odorous gums and spic^ 
India cottons and India rice, 
And the richest silks of far Cathay, 
Was due at Acapulco Bay. * 

Due she was, and over- due, — 
Galleon, merchandise, and crew, 
Creeping along through rain and shine, 
Through the tropics, under the line. 
The trains were waiting outside the wallSj 
The wives of sailors thronged the town, 
The traders sat by their empty stalls, 
And the Viceroy himself came down ; 
The bells in the tower were all a-trip, 
Te Dennis were on each Father's lip, 
The limes were ripening in the sun 
For the sick of the coming galleon. 

All in vain. Weeks^^passed away, 
And yet no galleon saw the bay : 
India goods advanced in price ; 
The Governor missed his favourite spice ; 
The Seiioritas mourned for sandal 
And the famous cottons of Coromandel ; 



The Lost Galleon. 105 

And some for an absent lover lost, 
And one for a husband, — Donna Julia, 
Wife of the captain tempest-tossed, 
In circumstances so peculiar : 
Even the Fathers, unawares, 
Grumbled a little at their prayers -, 
And all along the coast that year 
Votive candles were scarce and dear. 

Never a tear bedims the eye 
That time and patience will not dry ; 
Never a lip is curved with pain 
That can't be kissed into smiles again ; 
And these same truths, as far as I know, 
Obtained on the coast of Mexico 
More than two hundred years ago, 
In sixteen hundred and fifty-one, — 
Ten years after the deed was done, — 
And folks had forgotten the galleon : 
The divers plunged in the gulf for pearls, 
White as the teeth of the Indian girls ; 
The traders sat by their full bazaars ; 
The mules with many a weary load, 
And oxen, dragging their creaking cars. 
Came and went on the mountain road. 

Where was the galleon all this while? 
Wrecked on some lonely coral isle, 
Burnt by the roving sea-marauders, 
Or sailing north under secret orders ? 
Had she found the Anian passage famed, 
By lying Moldonado claimed. 
And sailed through the sixty-fifth degree 
Direct to the North Atlantic Sea ? 



ip6 The Lost Galleon, 

Or had she found the "River of Kings," 

Of which De Fonte told such strange things ? 

In sixteen forty ! Never a sign, 

East or west or under the line, 

They saw of the missing galleon ; 

Never a sail or plank or chip 

They found of the long-lost treasure-ship. 

Or enough to build a tale upon. 

But when she was lost, and where and how, 

Are the facts we're coming to just now. 

Take, if you please, the chart of that day, 
Published at Madrid, — por el Rey ; 
Look for a spot in the old South Sea, 
The hundred and eightieth degree 
Longitude west of Madrid : there, 
Under the equatorial glare, 
Just where the east and west are one, 
You'll find the missing galleon, — 
You'll find the " San Gregorio," yet 
Riding the seas, with sails all set. 
Fresh as upon the very day 
She sailed from Acapulco Bay. 

How did she get there ? What strange spell 

Kept her two hundred years so well, 

Free from decay and mortal taint ? 

What but the prayers of a patron saint ! 

A hundred leagues from Manilla town, 

The " San Gregorio's " helm came down ; 

Round she went on her heel, and not 

A cable's length from a galliot 

That rocked on the waters just abreast 

Of the galleon's course, which was west-sou-west 



The Lost Galleon. 107 

Then said the galleon's commandante, 

General Pedro Sobriente 

(That was his rank on land and main, 

A regular custom of Old Spain), 

" My pilot is dead of scurvy : may 

I ask the longitude, time, and day ? " 

The first two given and compared ; 

The third, — the commandante stared ! 

"The^fr^/ of June? I make it second." 

Said the stranger, " Then you've wrongly-reckoned ; 

I make \t first : as you came this way, 

You should have lost, d'ye see, a day; 

Lost a day, as plainly see, 

On the hundred and eightieth degree." 

" Lost a day ? " " Yes ; if not rude, 

When did you make east longitude ? " 

" On the ninth of May, — our patron's day." 

" On the ninth ? — yon had no ninth of May ! 

Eighth and tenth was there ; but stay " — 

Too late ; for the galleon bore away. 



Lost was the day they should have kept, 
Lost unheeded and lost unwept ; 
Lost in a way that made search vain. 
Lost in a trackless and boundless main ; 
Lost like the day of Job's awful curse. 
In his third chapter, third and fourth verse ; 
Wrecked was their patron's only day, — 
What would the holy Fathers say ? 



Said the Fray Antonio Estavan, 

The galleon's chaplain, — a learned man, — 



io8 The Lost Galleon. 

" Nothing is lost that you can regain ; 
And the way to look for a thing is plain, 
To go where you lost it, back again. 
Back with your galleon till you see 
The hundred and eightieth degree. 
Wait till the rolling year goes round, 
And there will the missing day be found ; 
For you'll find — if computation's true — 
That sailing easf will give to you 
Not only one ninth of May, but two, — 
One for the good saint's present cheer, 
And one for the day we lost last year." 



Back to the spot sailed the galleon ; 

Where, for a twelvemonth, off and on 

The hundred and eightieth degree 

She rose and fell on a tropic sea.- 

But lo ! when it came to the ninth of May, 

All of a sudden becalmed she lay 

One degree from that fatal spot, 

Without the power to move a knot ; 

And of course the moment she lost her way, 

Gone was her chance to save that day. 



To cut a lengthening story short, 
She never saved it. Made the sport 
Of evil spirits and baffling wind, 
She was always before or just behind. 
One day too soon, or one day too late, 
And the sun, meanwhile, would never wait. 
She had two eighths, as she idly lay. 
Two tenths, but never a 7imit/i of May ; 



The Lost Galleon. 109 

And there she rides through two hundred years 
Of dreary penance and anxious fears ; 
Yet, through the grace of the saint she served, 
Captain and crew are still preserved. 

By a computation that still holds good, 

Made by the Holy Brotherhood, 

The " San Gregorio " will cross that line 

In nineteen hundred and thirty-nine : 

Just three hundred years to a day 

From the time she lost the ninth of May. 

And the folk in Acapulco town, 

Over the waters looking down, 

Will see in the glow of the setting sun 

The sails of the missing galleon, 

And the royal standard of Philip Rey, 

The gleam.ing mast and glistening spar^ 

As she nears the surf of the outer bar. 

A Te Deutn sung on her crowded deck. 

An odour of spice along the shore, 

A crash, a cry from a shattered wreck, — ■ 

And the yearly galleon sails no more 

In or out of the olden bay ; 

For the blessed patron has found his day. 



Such is the legend. Hear this truth : 
Over the trackless past, somewhere, 

Lie the lost days of our tropic youth, 
Only regained by faith and prayer, 

Only recalled by prayer and plaint : 

Each lost day has its patron saint ! 



W DIALECT. 



( 113 ) 



VOL. I. 



Say there ! P'r'aps 
Some on you chaps 

Might know Jim Wild ? 
Well, — no offence : 
Thar ain't no sense 

In gittin' riled ! 

Jim was my chum 

Up on the Bar : 
That's why I come 

Down from up yar, 
Lookin' for Jim. 
Thank ye, sir ! You 
Ain't of that crew, — 

Blest if you are ! 

Money ? — Not much : 
That ain't my kind : 

I ain't no such. 

Rum ? — I don't mind, 

Seein' it's you. 

Well, this yer Jim, 
Did you know him ? — 



114 ''Jim. 



Jess 'bout your size ; 

Same kind of eyes ; — 

Well, that is strange : 
Why, it's two year 
Since he came here. 

Sick, for a change. 

Well, here's to us : 

Eh? 
The h you say \ 

Dead? 
That little cuss ? 

What makes you star,— 
You over thar ? 
Can't a man drop 
's glass in yer shop 
But you must rar' ? 
It wouldn't take 

D much to break 

You and your bar. 

Dead ! 
Poor — little — Jim ! 
Why, thar was me, 
Jones, and Bob Lee, 
Harry and Ben, — 
No-account men : 
Then to take him / 

Well, thar— Good by,— 
No more, sir, — I — 

Eh? 
What's that you say? — 



''Jimr 115 

Why, dern it ! — sho !— 
No? Yes! By Joe! 

Sold! 
Sold ! Why, you limh^ 
You ornery, 

Derned old 
Long-legged Jim I 



( ii6 ) 



Beautiful ! Sir, you may say so. Thar isn't her match 

in the county. 
Is thar, old gal, — Chiquita, my darling, my beauty ? 
Feel of that neck, sir, — thar's velvet ! Whoa ! steady, — ah, 

will you, you vixen ! 
Whoa ! I say. Jack, trot her out ; let the gentleman look 

at her paces. 

Morgan ! — she ain't nothing else, and I've got the papers to 

prove it. 
Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won't 

buy her. 
Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know Briggs of 

Tuolumne ? — 
Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his brains down 

in 'Frisco ? 

Hadn't no savey — hed Briggs. Thar, Jack ! that'll do, — 

quit that foolin' ! 
Nothin' to what she kin do, when she's got her work cut out 

before her. 
Hosses is bosses, you know, and likewise, too, jockeys is 

jockeys : 
And 'tain't ev'ry man as can ride as knows what a boss has 

got in him. 



Chiquita. 117 

Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got Flanigan's 

leaders ? 
Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough ford in low 

water ! 
Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the Jedge and his 

nevey 
Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and the water 

all round us j 



Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Rattlesnake Creek just a 

biUn', 
Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on the river. 
I had the grey, and the Jedge had his roan, and his nevey, 

Chiquita ; 
And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from the top of 
■ the canon. 



Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and Chiquita 
Buckled right down to her work, and afore I could yell to 

her rider, 
Took water jest at the ford, and there was the Jedge and 

me standing. 
And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat, and a 

driftin' to thunder ! 



Would ye b'lieve it? that night that hoss, that ar' filly, 

Chiquita, 
Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and 

dripping : 
Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness. 
Just as she swam the Fork, — that hoss, that ar' filly, 

Chiquita. 



1 1 8 Chiquita. 

That's what I call a hoss ! and — What did you say ? — Oh, 

the nevey ? 
Drownded, I reckon, — leastways, he never kem back to 

deny it. 
Ve see the derned fool had no seat, — ye couldn't have made 

him a rider ; 
And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and bosses — ^well, 

bosses is bosses ' 



( 119 ) 



(1856.) 

Dow's Flat. That's its name ; 

And I reckon that you 
Are a stranger ? The same ? 
Well, I thought it was true, — 
For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at 
first view. 

It was called after Dow, — 

Which the same was an ass, — 
And as to the how 

Thet the thing kem to pass, — 
Jest tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here 
in the grass. 

You see this 'yer Dow 

Hed the worst kind of luck ; 
He slipped up somehow 

On each thing thet he struck. 
Why, ef he'd a straddled thet fence-rail, the derned thing 
'ed get up and buck. 

He mined on the bar 

Till he couldn't pay rates; 



1 20 Dow^s Flat. 

He was smashed by a car 

When he tunnelled with Bates ; 
And right on the top of his trouble kern his wife and five 
kids from the States. 



It was rough, — mighty rough ; 
But the boys they stood by, 
And they brought him the stuff 
For a house, on the sly ; 
And the old woman, — well, she did washing, and took on 
when no one was nigh. 

But this 'yer luck of Dow's 

Was so powerful mean 
That the spring near his house 
Dried right up on the green ; 
And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to 
be seen. 



Then the bar petered out, 

And the boys wouldn't stay ; 
And the chills got about. 
And his wife fell away ; 
But Dow in his well kept a peggin' in his usual ridikilous 
way. 

One day, — it was June, — 
And a year ago, jest — 
This Dow kem at noon 
To his work like the rest. 
With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and a derringer hid 
in his breast. 



Dow's Flat. 121 

He goes to the well, 

And he stands on the brink, 
And stops for a spell 
Jest to listen and think : 
For the sun in his eyes (jest like this, sir !), you see, kinder 
made the cuss blink. 

His two ragged gals 

In the gulch were at play, 
And a gownd that was Sal's 
Kinder flapped on a bay : 
Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all, — as I've heer'd 
the folks say. 

And — That's a peart hoss 

Thet you've got, — ain't it now ? 
What might be her cost ? 
. Eh ? Oh !— Well, then, Dow- 
Let's see, — well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, sir, that 
day, anyhow. 

For a blow of his pick 

Sorter caved in the side. 
And he looked and turned sick. 
Then he trembled and cried. 
For you see the dern cuss had struck — ""^ater?" — Beg 
your parding, young man, — there you lied! 

It was gold, — in the quartz, 

And it ran all alike ; 
And I reckon five oughts 
Was the worth of that strike ; 
And that house with the coopilow's his'n, — which the same 
isn't bad for a Pike. 



122 Dow's Flat. 

Thet's why it's Dow's Flat ; 

And the thing of it is 
That he kinder got that 

Through sheer contrairiness : 

For 'twas water the derned cuss was seekin', and his luck 

made him certain to miss 

Thet's so ! Thar's your way, 

To the left of yon tree ; 
But — a — look h'yur, say ? 
Won't you come up to tea ? 
No? Well, then the next time you're passin'; and ask after 
Dow, — and thet's me. 



{ 123 ) 



3ln tf)e CunneL 

Didn't know Flynn, — 
Flynn of Virginia, — 
Long as he's been 'yar ? 
Look 'ee here, stranger, 
Whar hev you been ? 

Here in this tunnel 
He was my pardner, 

That same Tom Flynn, — 
Working together, 
In wind and weather, 

Day out and in. 

Didn't know Flynn ! 
Well, that is queer ; 

Why, it's a sin 

To think of Tom Flynn,^ 
Tom with his cheer, 
Tom without fear, — 
Stranger, look 'yar 1 

Thar in the drift, 

Back to the wall, 
He held the timbers 

Ready to fall ; 



124 It^ ih^ Tunnel. 

Then in the darkness 
I heard him call : 

*' Run for your life, Jake ! 

Run for your wife's sake ! 

Don't wait for me." 

And that was all 
Heard in the din, 
Heard of Tom Flynn, — 
Flynn of Virginia. 

That's all about 
Flynn of Virginia. 

That lets me out. 

Here in the damp,— 

Out of the sun, — 
That 'ar derned lamp 

Makes my eyes run. 

Well, there, — I'm done t 

But, sir, when you'll 

Hear the next fool 
Asking of Flynn, — ■ 

Flynn of Virginia, — 
Just you chip in. 
Say you knew Flynn ; 

Say that you've been 'yar. 



( 125 ) 



« Cicely." 

(alkali station.) 

Cicely says you're a poet ; maybe, — I ain't much on rhyme: 
I reckon you'd give me a hundred, and beat me every time. 
Poetry ! — that's the way some chaps puts up an idee, 
But I takes mine "straight without sugar," and that's what's 
the matter with me. 

Poetry ! — ^just look round you, — alkali, rock, and sage ; 
Sage-brush, rock, and alkali ; ain't it a pretty page ! 
Sun in the east at mornin', sun in the west at night, 
And the shadow of this yer station the on'y thing moves in 
sight. 

Poetry ! — ^Well now — Polly ! Polly, run to your mam ; 
Run right away, my pooty ! By-by ! Ain't she a lamb ? 
Poetry ! — that reminds me o' suthin' right in that suit : 
Jest shet that door thar, will yer ? — for Cicely's ears is cute. 

Ye noticed Polly, — the baby ? A month afore she was born, 
Cicely — my old woman — was moody-like and forlorn ; 
Out of her head and crazy, and talked of flowers and trees ; 
Family man yourself, sir ? Well, you know what a woman 
he's. 



126 '' Cicely y 

Narvous she was, and restless, — said that she "couldn't 

stay." 
Stay ! — and the nearest woman seventeen miles away. 
But I fixed it up with the doctor, and he said he would be 

on hand. 
And I kinder stuck by the shanty, and fenced in that bit o' 

land. 

One night, — the tenth of October, — I woke with a chill and 

a fright. 
For the door it was standing open, and Cicely warn't in 

sight, 
But a note was pinned on the blanket, which it said that she 

" couldn't stay," 
But had gone to visit her neighbour, — seventeen miles away ! 

When and how she stampeded, I didn't wait for to see. 
For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild as she ; 
Running first this way and that way, like a hound that is off 

the scent. 
For there warn't no track in the darkness to tell me the way 

she went. 



I've had some mighty mean moments afore I kem to this 

spot, — 
Lost on the Plains in '50, drownded almost and shot ; 
But out on this alkali desert, a hunting a crazy wife, 
Was ra'ly as on-satis-factory as anything in my life. 

" Cicely ! Cicely ! Cicely ! " I called, and I held my breath, 
And " Cicely ! " came from the canyon, — and all was as still 
as death. 



'' Cicely y 127 

And " Cicely ! Cicely ! Cicely ! " came from the rocks below, 
And jest but a whisper of " Cicely ! " down from them peaks 
of snow. 



I ain't what you call religious, — but I jest looked up to the 

sky, 
And — this yer's to what I'm coming, and maybe ye think 

I lie: 
But up away to the east'ard, yaller and big and far, 
I saw of a suddent rising the singlerist kind of star. 

Big and yaller and dancing, it seemed to beckon to me : 
Yaller and big and dancing, such as you never see : 
Big and yaller and dancing, — I never saw such a star, 
And I thought of them sharps in the Bible, and I went for it 
then and thar. 



Over the brush and bowlders I stumbled and pushed ahead ; 

Keeping the star afore me, I went wharever it led. 

It might hev been for an hour, when suddent and peart and 

nigh. 
Out of the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby's cry. 



Listen ! thar's the same music ; but her lungs they are 

stronger now 
Than the day I packed her and her mother, — I'm derned if 

I jest know how. 
But the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o' the 

whole thing is 
That Cis never knew what happened from that very night 

to this ! 



128 ''Cicely:' 

But Cicely says you're a poet, and maybe you might, some 

day, 
Jest sling her a rhyme 'bout a baby that was born in a 

curious way, 
And see what she says ; and, old fellow, when you speak of 

the star, don't tell 
As how 'twas the doctor's lantern, — for maybe 'twon't sound 

so well. 



( 129 ) 



Penelope* 

(Simpson's bar, 1858.) 

So you've kem 'yer agen, 

And one answer won't do? 

Well, of all the derned men 

That I'*e struck, it is you. 

O Sal ! 'yer's that derned fool from Simpson's, cavortin' 

round 'yer in the dew. 

Kem in, ef you will. 

Thar,— quit ! Take a cheer. 
Not that ; you can't fill 

Them theer cushings this year, — 
For that cheer was my old man's, Joe Simpson, and they 
don't make such men about 'yer. 

He was tall, was my Jack, 

And as strong as a tree. 

Thar's his gun on the rack,-^— 

Jest you heft it, and see. 

And you come a courtin' his widder ! Lord ! where can 

that critter, Sal, be ! 

VOL. I. I 



1 30 Penelope. 

You'd fill my Jack's place ? 

And a man of your size, — 
With no baird to his face, 
Nor a snap to his eyes, 
And nary — She ! thar ! I was foolin', — I was, Joe, for sar- 
tain, — don't rise. 

Sit down. Law ! why, sho ! 

I'm as weak as a gal. 
Sal ! Don't you go, Joe, 
Or I'll faint, — sure, I shall. 
Sit down, — anywJieer, where you like, Joe, — in that cheer, if 
you choose, — Lord ! where's Sal ? 



{ 131 ) 



plain Language from CrutJM lameief* 

(table mountain, 1870.) 

Which I wish to remark, 

And my language is plain, 
That for ways that are dark 

And for tricks that are vain, 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar, 

Which the same I would rise to explain. 

Ah Sin was his name ; 

And I shall not deny. 
In regard to the same, 

What that name might imply ; 
But his smile it was pensive and childlike, 

As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 

It was August the third, 

And quite soft was the skies ; 
Which it might be inferred 

That Ah Sin was likewise ; 
Yet he played it that day upon William 

And me in a way I despise. 



132 Plain Language from Truthful James, 

Which we had a small game, 

And Ah Sin took a hand : 
It was Euchre. The same 

He did not understand ; 
But he smiled as he sat by the table, 

With the smile that was childlike and bland. 

Yet the cards they were stocked 

In a way that I grieve, 
And my feelings were shocked 

At the state of Nye's sleeve, 
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, 

And the same with intent to deceive. 

But the hands that were played 

By that heathen Chinee, 
And the points that he made, 

Were quite frightful to see, — 
Till at last he put down a right bower, 

Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 

Then I looked up at Nye, 

And he gazed upon me ; 
And he rose with a sigh, 

And said, " Can this be ? 
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour," — 

And he went for that heathen Chinee. 

In the scene that ensued 

I did not take a hand. 
But the floor it was strewed 

Like the leaves on the strand 
With the cards that Ah sin had been hiding, 

In the game " he did not understand." 



Plain Language from Truthful James. 133 

In his sleeves, which were long, 

He had twenty-four packs, — 
Which was coming it strong, 

Yet I state but the facts ; 
And we found on his nails, which were taper, 

What is frequent in tapers, — that's wax. 

Which is why I remark, 

And my language is plain. 
That for ways that are dark 

And for tricks that are vain. 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar, — 

Which the same I am free to maintain. 



( 134 ) 



Cfie ^ociet^ upon tje ^tanMaUjOf, 

I RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful 

James ; 
I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games ; 
And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row 
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. 



But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan 
For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man, 
And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, 
To lay for that same member for to " put a head " on him. 

Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see 
Than the first six months' proceedings of that same Society, 
Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones 
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones. 

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there. 
From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare ; 
And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the 

rules, 
Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his 

lost mules. 



The Society upon the Stanislaus. 135 

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at 

fault, 
It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault ; 
He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, 
And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town. 



Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent 
To say another is an ass, — at least, to all intent ; 
Nor should the individual who happens to be meant 
Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent. 

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when 
A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, 
And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the 

floor. 
And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more. 

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage 

In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age ; 

And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was 

a sin. 
Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of 

Thompson in. 

And this is all I have to say of these improper games. 
For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful 

James ; 
And I've told in simple language what I knew about the 

row 
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. 



( 136 ) 



(in the COLORADO PARK, 1873.) 

Wot's that you're readin' ? — a novel ? A novel ! — well 

darn my skin ! 
You a man grown and bearded and histin' such stuff ez 

that in — 
Stuff about gals and their sweethearts ! No wonder you're 

thin ez a knife. 
Look at me ! — clar two hundred — and never read one in 

my life ! 

That's my opinion o' novels. And ez to their lyin' round 

here, 
They belong to the Jedge's daughter — the Jedge who came 

up last year 
On account of his lungs and the mountains and the balsam 

o' pine and fir ; 
And his daughter — well, she read novels, and that's what's 

the matter with her. 

Yet she was sweet on the Jedge, and stuck by him day and 

■ night, 
Alone in the cabin up 'yer — till she grew like a ghost, all 

white. 
She wus only a slip of a thing, ez light and ez up and 

away 
Ez rifle smoke blown through the woods, but she wasn't 

my kind — no way ! 



Luke, 137 

Speakin' o' gals, d'ye mind that house ez you rise the 

hill, • 

A mile and a half from White's, and jist above Mattingly's 

mill? 
You do ? Well now thai^s a gal ! What ! you saw her ? 

Oh, come now, thar ! quit ! 
She was only bedevlin' you boys, for to me she don't cotton 

one bit. 



Now she's what I call a gal — ez pretty and plump ez a 
quail ; 

Teeth ez white ez a hound's, and they'd go through a ten- 
penny nail j 

Eyes that kin snap like a cap. So she asked to know 
" whar I was hid ? " 

She did ! Oh, it's jist like her sass, for she's peart ez a 
Katydid. 



But what was I talking of? — Oh ! the Jedge and his daughter 

— she read 
Novels the whole day long, and I reckon she read them 

abed ; 
And sometimes she read them out loud to the Jedge on the 

porch where he sat. 
And 'twas how " Lord Augustus " said this, and how " Lady 

Blanche " she said that. 



But the sickest of all that I heerd was a yarn thet they 

read 'bout a chap, 
"Leather-stocking" by name, and a hunter chock full o' the 

greenest o' sap ; 



138 Luke. 

And they asked me to hear, but I says, *' Miss Mabel, not 

any for me ; 
When I likes I kin sling my own lies, and thet chap and I 

shouldn't agree." 



Yet somehow or other she was always sayin' I brought her 

to mind 
Of folks about whom she had read, or suthin belike of 

thet kind, 
And thar warn't no end o' the names that she give me thet 

summer up here — 
"Robin Hood," " Leather-stocking," "Rob Roy,"— Oh, I 

tell you, the critter was queer ! 



And yet, ef she hadn't been spiled, she was harmless enough 

in her way ; 
She could jabber in French to her dad, and they said that 

she knew how to play ; 
And she worked me that shot-pouch up thar, which the 

man doesn't live ez kin use ; 
And slippers — you see 'em down 'yer — ez would cradle an 

Injin's papoose. 



Yet along o' them novels, you see, she was wastin' and 

mopin' away, 
And then she got shy with her tongue, and at last had 

nothin' to say ; 
And whenever I happened around, her face it was hid by a 

book, 
And it warn't until she left that she give me ez much ez a 

look. 



Luke. 139 

And this was the way it was. It was night when I kem up 
here 

To say to 'em all "good-bye," for I reckoned to go for 
deer 

At " sun up " the day they left. So I shook 'em all round 
by the hand, 

'Cept Mabel, and she was sick, ez they give me to under- 
stand. 

But jist ez I passed the house next morning at dawn, some 

one. 
Like a little waver o' mist got up on the hill with the sun ; 
Miss Mabel it was, alone — all wrapped in a mantle o' 

lace — 
And she stood there straight in the road, with a touch o' 

the sun in her face. 

And she looked me right in the eye — I'd seen suthin like 

it before 
When I hunted a wounded doe to the edge o' the Clear 

Lake Shore, 
And I had my knee on its neck, and jist was raisin' my 

knife. 
When it give me a look like that, and — well, it got off with 

its life. 

"We are going to-day," she said, "and I thought I would 

say good-bye 
To you in your own house, Luke — these woods and the 

bright blue sky ! 
You've always been kind to us, Luke, and papa has found 

you still 
As good as the air he breathes, and wholesome as Laurel 

Tree Hill. 



140 Ltike. 

"And we'll always think of you, Luke, as the thing we 

could not take away, — 
The balsam that dwells in the woods, the rainbow that lives 

in the spray. 
And you'll sometimes think of me^ Luke, as you know you 

once used to say, 
A rifle smoke blown through the woods, a moment, but 

never to stay." 

And then we shook hands. She turned, but a-suddent she 

tottered and fell, 
And I caught her sharp by the waist, and held her a minit 

Well, 
It was only a minit, you know, thet ez cold and ez white 

she lay 
Ez a snowflake here on my breast, and then — well, she 

melted away — 

And was gone . . . And thar are her books ; but I says 

not any for me ', 
Good enough may be for some, but them and I mightn't 

agree. 
They spiled a decent gal ez might hev made some chap a 

wife, 
And look at me ! — clar two hundred — and never read one 

in ray life I 



( HI ) 



**C6e IBatt^ in tje mooXi0" 

(big pine flat, 187 1.) 

" Something characteristic," eh ? 

Humph ! I reckon you mean by that 
Something that happened in our way, 

Here at the crossin' of Big Pine Flat. 
Times aren't now as they used to be, 

When gold was flush and the boys were frisky, 
And a man would pull out his battery 

For anything — maybe the price of whisky. 

Nothing of that sort, eh ? That's strange ! 

Why, I thought you might be diverted 
Hearing how Jones of Red Rock Range 

Drawed his " hint to the unconverted," 
And saying, " Whar will you have it ? " shot 

Cherokee Bob at the last debating ! 
What was the question I forgot, 

But Jones didn't Uke Bob's way of stating. 

Nothing of that kind, eh ? You mean 
Something milder ? Let's see ! — O Joe ! 

Tell to the stranger that Httle scene 

Out of the " Babes in the Woods." You know, 



142 ^^The Babes in the Woods ^ 

"Babes" was the name that we gave 'em, sir, 
Two lean lads in their teens, and greener 

Than even the belt of spruce and fir 

Where they built their nest, and each day grew 
leaner. 

No one knew where they came from. None 

Cared to ask if they had a mother. 
Runaway scholboys, maybe. One 

Tall and dark as a spruce : the other 
Blue and gold in the eyes and hair, 

Soft and low in his speech, but rarely 
Talking with us ; and we didn't care 

To get at their secret at all unfairly. 

For they were so quiet, so sad and shy, 

Content to trust each other solely. 
That somehow we'd always shut one eye, 

And never seem to observe them wholly 
As they passed to their work, 'Twas a worn-out 
claim. 

And it paid them grub. They could live with 
out it. 
For the boys had a way of leaving game 

In their tent, and forgetting all about it. 

Yet no one asked for their secret. Dumb 
It lay in their big eyes' heavy hollows. 

It was understood that no one should come 
To their tent unawares, save the bees and swallows. 

So they lived alone. 'Until one warm night 
■ I was sitting here at the tent-door, — so, sir ! 

When out of the sunset's rosy light 
Up rose the Sheriff of Mariposa. 



^^The Babes in the Woods!' 143 

I knew at once there was something wrong, 

For his hand and his voice shook just a Httle, 
And there isn't much you can fetch along 

To make the sinews of Jack Hill brittle. 
" Go warn the Babes ! " he whispered, hoarse ; 

" Tell I'm coming — to get and scurry ; 
For I've got a story that's bad, — and worse, 

I've got a warrant : G — d d — n it, hurry ! " 

Too late ! they had seen him cross the hill ; 

I ran to their tent and found them lying 
Dead in each other's arms, and still 

Clasping the drug they had taken flying. 
And there lay their secret cold and bare, 

Their life, their trial— the old, old story ! 
For the sweet blue eyes and the golden hair 

Was a woman's shame and a wo?nan's glory. 

" Who were they ? " Ask no more, or ask 

The sun that visits their grave so lightly ', 
Ask of the whispering reeds, or task 

The mourning crickets that chirrup nightly. 
All of their life but its love forgot. 

Everything tender and soft and mystic, 
These are our Babes in the Woods, — you've got, 

Well — human nature — that's characteristic 



( 144 ) 



tint Latejsft C{)inc0e ©utrage. 

It was noon by the sun ; we had finished our game, 
And was passin' remarks goin' back to our claim ; 
Jones was countin' his chips, Smith rcHevin' his mind 
Of ideas that a "straight" should beat "three of a kind," 
\Mien Johnson of Elko came gallopin' down, 
With a look on his face 'twixt a grin and a frown, 
And he calls, "Drop your shovels and face right about, 
For them Chinees from Murphy's are cleanin' us out — 

With their ching-a-ring-chow 

And their chic-colorow 

They're bent upon making 

No slouch of a row." 

Then Jones — my own pardner — looks up with a sigh 
" It's your wash-bill," sez he, and I answers, "You lie ! " 
But afore he could draw or the others could arm, 
Up tumbles the Bates' boys, who heard the alarm. 
And a yell from the hill-top and roar of a gong, 
Mixed up with remarks like " Hi ! yi ! Chang-a-wong," 
And bombs, shells, and crackers, that crashed through 

the trees. 
Revealed in their war-togs four hundred Chinees ! 

Four hundred Chinee ; 

We are eight, don't ye see ! 

That made a square fifty 

To just one o' we. 



The Latest Chinese Outrage. 145 

They wete dressed in their best, but I grieve that that 

same 
Was largely made up of our own, to their shame ; 
And my pardner's best shirt and his trousers were hung 
On a spear, and above him were tauntingly swung ; 
While that beggar, Chey Lee, like a conjuror sat 
PuUin' out eggs and chickens from Johnson's best hat \ 
And Bates' game rooster was part of their " loot," 
And all of Smith's pigs were skyugled to boot ; 
But the climax was reached and I like to have died 
When my demijohn, empty, came down the hillside,— 

Down the hillside — 

What once held the pride 

Of Robertson County 

Pitched down the hillside ! 



Then we axed for a parley. When out of the din , 
To the front comes a-rockin' that heathen, Ah Sin ! 
*' You owe flowty dollee — me washee you camp, 
You catchee my washee — me catchee no stamp ; 
One dollar hap dozen, me no catchee yet, 
Now that flowty dollee — no hab ? — how can get ? 
Me catchee you piggee — me sellee for cash. 
It catchee me licee — you catchee no ' hash ; ' 
Me belly good Sheliff — me lebbee when can, 
Me allee same halp pin as Melican man ! 

But Melican man 

He washee him pan 

On hottovi side hillee 

And catchee — how can ? " 

"Are we men?" says Joe Johnson, "and list to this jaw, 
Without process of warrant or colour of law ? 

VOL. I. K 



146 The Latest Chinese Outrage. 

Are we men or — a-chew ? " — here he gasped in his speech, 

For a stink-pot had fallen just out of his reach. 

" Shall we stand here as idle, and let Asia pour 

Her barbaric hordes on this civilised shore ? 

Has the White Man no country? Are we left in the 

lurch ? 
And likewise what's gone of the Established Church ? 
One man to four hundred is great odds, I own. 
But this 'yer's a White Man — I plays it alone ! " 
And he sprang up the hillside — to stop him none dare — 
Till a yell from the top told a " White Man was there ! " 

A White Man was there ! 

We prayed he might spare 

Those misguided heathens 

The few clothes they wear. 

They fled, and he followed, but no matter where ; 
They fled to escape him, — the " White Man was there," — 
Till we missed first his voice on the pine-wooded slope, 
And we knew for the heathen henceforth was no hope ; 
And the yells they grew fainter, when Petersen said, 
" It simply was human to bury his dead." 

And then, with slow tread, 

We crept up, in dread. 

But found nary mortal there, 

Living or dead. 

But there was his trail, and the way that they came, 

And yonder, no doubt, he was bagging his game. 

When Jones drops his pickaxe, and Thompson says 

"Shoo!" 
And both of 'em points to a cage of bamboo 
Hanging down from a tree, with a label that swung 



The Latest Chinese Outrage. 147 

Conspicuous, with letters in some foreign tongue, 
Which, when freely translated, the same did appear 
Was the Chinese for saying, " A White Man is here ! " 

And as we drew near, 

In anger and fear. 

Bound hand and foot, Johnson 

Looked down with a leer ! 

In his mouth was an opium pipe — which was why 

He leered at us so with a drunken-like eye ! 

They had shaved off his eyebrows, and tacked on a cue, 

They had painted his face of a coppery hue, 

And rigged him all up in a heathenish suit. 

Then softly departed, each man with his " loot'* 

Yes, every galoot, 

And Ah Sin, to boot. 

Had left him there hanging 

Like ripening fruit. 

At a mass meeting held up at Murphy's next day 
There were seventeen speakers and each had his say ; 
There were twelve resolutions that instantly passed, 
And each resolution was worse than the last ; 
There were fourteen petitions, which, granting the same, 
Will determine what Governor Murphy's shall name ; 
And the man from our District that goes up next year 
Goes up on one issue — that's patent and clear : 

" Can the work of a mean, 

Degraded, unclean 

Believer in Buddha 

Be held as a lien ? '* 



( 148 ) 



Cruti)ful 3amej3f to tlie €tiitot* 

(yreka, 1873.) 

Which it is not my style 

To produce needless pain 
By statements that rile 
Or that go 'gin the grain, 
But here's Captain Jack still a-livin', and Nye has no skelp 
on his brain ! 

On that Caucasian head 

There is no crown of hair ; 
It has gone, it has fled ! 
And Echo sez "Where?" 
And I asks, " Is this Nation a White Man's, and is generally 
things on the square ? " 

She was known in the camp 
As " Nye's other squaw," 
And folks of that stamp 
Hez no rights in the law, 
But is treacherous, sinful, and slimly, as Nye might hev well 
known before. 

But she said that she knew 
Where the Injins was hid, 



Truthful James to the Editor, 149 

And the statement was true 
For it seemed that she did, 
Since she led WiUiam where he was covered by seventeen 
Modocs, and — shd ! 



Then they reached for his hair ; 

But Nye sez, "By the law 
Of nations, forbear ! 
I surrenders — no more 
And I looks to be treated, — you hear me i* — as a pris'ner, a 
pris'ner of war 1 " 

But Captain Jack rose 

And he sez, "It's too thinl 
Such statements as those 
It's too late to begin. 
There's a Modoc i7idictment agin you, O Paleface, and you're 
goin' in ! 

•* You stole Schonchin's squaw 

In the year sixty-two ; 
It was in sixty-four 

That Long Jack you went through, 
And you burned Nasty Jim's rancheria, and his wives and 
his papooses too. 

" This gun in my hand 
Was sold me by you 
'Gainst the law of the land. 
And I grieves it is true ! " 
And he buried his face in his blanket and wept as he hid it 
from view. 



150 Truthful James to the Editor. 

" But you're tried and condemned, 

And skelping's your doom," 
And he paused and he hemmed — 
But why this resume ? 
He was skelped 'gainst the custom of nations, and cut off 
like a rose in its bloom. 



So I asks without guile, 

And I trusts not in vain, 
If this is the style 

That is going to obtain — 
If here's Captain Jack still a-livin', and Nye with no skelp 
. on his brain ? 



( 151 ) 



0n Jiti^l of tU moaD* 



SIERRAS, 1876. 



DRAMATIS PERSON.E. 



J^zrsf Tourist, 
Seco7id Tourist. 



''Yuba Bill,'' Driver. 
A Stranger. 



First Tourist. 



Look how the upland plunges into cover, 

Green where the pines fade sullenly away. 
Wonderful those olive depths ! and wonderful, more- 
over 

Second Tourist. 
The red dust that rises in a suffocating way. 

First Tourist. 

Small is the soul that cannot soar above it, 

Cannot but cling to its ever-kindred clay : 
Better be yon bird, that seems to breathe and love 
it 

Second Tourist. 

Doubtless a hawk or some other bird of prey. 
Were we, like him, as sure of a dinner 

That on our stomachs would coiufortably stay ; 



152 An Idyl of the Road. 

Or were the fried ham a shade or two just thinner, 
That must confront us at closing of the day : 

Then might you sing hke Theocritus or Virgil, 
Then might we each make a metrical essay ; 

But verse just now — I must protest and urge — ill 
Fits a digestion by travel led astray 



Chorus of Passengers. 

Speed, Yuba Bill ! oh, speed us to our dinner ! 
Speed to the sunset that beckons far away. 



Second Tourist. 

William of Yuba, O Son of Nimshi, hearken ! 

Check thy profanity, but not thy chariot's play. 
Tell us, O WiUiam, before the shadows darken, 

Where, and, oh ! how we shall dine ? O William, 
say ! 

Yuba Bill. 

It ain't my fault, nor the Kumpeney's, 1 reckon, 

Ye can't get ez square meal ez any on the Bay, 
Up at yon place, whar the senset 'pears to beckon — 

Ez thet sharp allows in his airy sort o' way. 
Thar woz a place wor yer hash ye might hev wrestled. 

Kept by a woman ez chipper ez a jay — 
Warm in her breast all the morning sunshine nestled j 

Red on her cheeks all the evening's sunshine lay. 

Second Tourist. 

Praise is but breath, O chariot compeller I 
Yet of that hash we would bid you farther say. 



An Idyl of the Road. 153 



Yuba Bill. 

Thar woz a snipe — like you, a fancy tourist- 
Kem to that ranch ez if to make a stay, 

Ran off the gal, and ruined jist the purist 
Critter that lived 



Stranger {quietly). 

You're a liar, driver t 

Yuha Bill {reaching for his revolver). 

Eh! 
Here take my lines, somebody 

Chorus of Passengers. 

Hush, boys ! listen ! 
Inside there's a lady ! Remember ! No affray ! 

Yuha Bill. 
Ef that man lives, the fault ain't mine or his'n. 

Stranger. 

Wait for the sunset that beckons far away, 

Then — as you will ! But, meantime, friends, believe me. 
Nowhere on earth lives a purer woman ; nay, 

If my perceptions do surely not deceive me, 
She is the lady we have inside to-day. 

As for the man — you see that blackened pine tree. 
Up which the green vine creeps heavenward away ! 

He was that scarred trunk, and she the vine that sweetly 
Clothed him with life again, and lifted 



154 An Idyl of the Road. 



How know you this ? 



Second Tourist. 
Yes ; but pray 

Stranger. 

She's my wife. 

Yuba Bill. 
The h — ^11 you say ! 



( 155 ) 



Cf)ompje?on of Hngefe^ 

It is the story of Thompson — of Thompson, the hero of 

Angels. 
Frequently drunk was Thompson, but always polite to the 

stranger ; 
Light and free was the touch of Thompson upon his 

revolver ; 
Great the mortality incident on that lightness and freedom. 

Yet nf)t happy or gay was Thompson, the hero of Angels; 
Often spoke to himself in accents of anguish and sorrow, 
"Why do I make^the graves of the frivolous youth who in 

folly 
Thoughtlessly pass my revolver, forgetting its lightness and 

freedom? 

**Why in my daily walks does the surgeon drop his left 

eyelid. 
The undertaker smile, and the sculptor of gravestone 

marbles 
Lean on Ms chisel and gaze? I care not o'er much for 

attention ; 
Simple am I in my ways, save but for this lightness and 

freedoai." 



156 Thompson of Angels. 

So spake that pensive man — this Thompson, the hero of 

Angels, 
Bitterly smiled to himself, as he strode through the 

chapparal musing. 
" Why, O why ? " echoed the pines in the dark olive depth 

far resounding. 
*Why, indeed?" whispered the sage brush that bent 

'neath his feet non-elastic. 



Pleasant indeed was that morn that dawned o'er the bar- 
room at Angels, 

Where in their manhood's prime was gathered the pride of 
the hamlet. 

Six "took sugar in theirs," and nine to the barkeeper 
lightly 

Smiled as they said, "Well, Jim, you can give us our 
regular fusil." 

Suddenly as the grey hawk swoops down on the barnyard, 

alighting 
Where, pensively picking their corn, the favourite pullets 

are gathered, 
So in that festive bar-room dropped Thompson, the hero 

of Angels, 
Grasping his weapon dread with his pristine lightness and 

freedom. 

Never a word he spoke ; divesting himself of his garments, 
Danced the war-dance of the playful yet truculent Modoc, 
Uttered a single whoop, and then, in the accents of chal- 
lenge, 
Spake : " Oh, behold in me a Crested Jay Hawk of the 
mountain." 



Thompson of Angels. 157 

Then rose a pallid man — a man sick with fever and ague ; 

Small was he, and his step was tremulous, weak, and un- 
certain ; 

Slowly a Derringer drew, and covered the person of 
Thompson ; 

Said in his feeblest pipe, *' I'm a Bald-headed Snipe of the 
Valley." 

As on its native plains the kangaroo, startled by hunters, 
Leaps with successive bounds, and hurries away to the 

thickets, 
So leaped the Crested Hawk, and quietly hopping behind 

him 
Ran, and occasionally shot, that Bald-headed Snipe of the 

Valley. 

Vain at the festive bar still lingered the people of Angel^, 
Hearing afar in the woods the petulant pop of the pistol ; 
Never again returned the Crested Jay Hawk of the moun- 
tains, 
Never again was seen the Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley. 

Yet in the hamlet of Angels, when truculent speeches are 

uttered, 
When bloodshed and life alone will atone for some trifling 

misstatement, 
Maidens and men in their prime recall the last hero of 

Angels, 
Think of and vainly regret the Bald-headed Snipe of the 

Valley ! 



( 158 ) 



(sierras.) 

We checked our pace, the red road sharply rounding ; 

We heard the troubled flow 
Of the dark olive depths of pines resounding ■ 

A thousand feet below. 

Above the tumult of the canon lifted, 

The grey hawk breathless hung, 
Or on the hill a winged shadow drifted 

Where furze and thorn-bush clung j 

Or where half-way the mountain side was furrowed 

With many a seam and scar ; 
Or some abandoned tunnel dimly burrowed, — 

A mole-hill seen so far. 

We looked in silence down across the distant 

Unfathomable reach : 
A silence broken by the guide's consistent 

And realistic speech. 

" Walker of Murphy's blew a hole through Peters 

For telling him he lied ; 
Then up and dusted out of South Hornitos 

Across the Long Divide. 



The Hawks Nest. 159 

" We ran him out of Strong's, and up through Eden 

And 'cross the ford below, 
And up this canon (Peters' brother leadin'), 

And me and Clark and Joe. 

** He fou't us game : somehow I disremember 
. Jest how the thing kem round ; 
Some say 'twas wadding, some a scattered ember 
From fires on the ground. 

" But in one minute all the hill below him 

Was just one sheet of flame ; 
Guardin' the crest, Sam Clark and I called to him, 

And, — well, the dog was game ! 

** He made no sign : the fires of hell were round him. 

The pit of hell below. 
We sat and waited, but never found him ; 

And then we turned to go. 

"And then — you see that rock that's grown so bristly 

With chapparal and tan — 
Suthin crep' out : it might hev been a grizzly, 

It might hev been a man ; 

"Suthin that howled, and gnashed its teeth, and 
shouted 

In smoke and dust and flame ; 
Suthin that sprang into the depths about it, 

Grizzly or man, — but game ! 

" That's all ! Well, yes, it does look rather risky, 

And kinder makes one queer 
And dizzy looking down. A drop of whisky 

Ain't a bad thing right here ! " 



( i6o ) 



Jpec Eettetr. 

I'm sitting alone by the fire, 

Dressed just as I came from the dance, 
In a robe even you would admire, — 

It cost a cool thousand in France; 
I'm be-diamonded out of all reason, 

My hair is done up in a cue : 
In short, sir, " the belle of the season " 

Is wasting an hour upon you. 

A dozen engagements I've broken ; 

I left in the midst of a set ; 
Likewise a proposal, half spoken. 

That waits — ^on the stairs — for me yet. 
They say he'll be rich, — when he grows up,- 

And then he adores me indeed ; 
And you, sir, are turning your nose up, 

Three thousand miles off, as you read. 

" And how do I like my position ? " 

"And what do I think of New York?" 
" And now, in my higher ambition. 

With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk ? " 
" And isn't it nice to have riches. 

And diamonds and silks, and all that ? " 
" And aren't it a change to the ditches 

And tunnels of Poverty Flat ^ " 



Her Letter. i6i 

Well, yes, — if you saw us out driving 

Each day in the Park, four-in-hand, — 
If you saw poor dear mamma contriving 

To look supernaturally grand, — 
If you saw papa's picture, as taken 

By Brady, and tinted at that, — 
You'd never suspect he sold bacon 

And flour at Poverty Flat. 

And yet, just this moment, when sitting 

In the glare of the grand chandelier,^ 
In the bustle and glitter befitting 

The " finest soiree of the year," — 
In the mists of a gaze de Chambery, 

And the hum of the smallest of talk, — 
Somehow, Joe, I thought of the " Ferry," 

And the dance that we had on "The Fork;" 

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster 

Of flags festooned over the wall ; 
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre 

And tallow on head-dress and shawl ', 
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, 

Of the dress of my queer vis-ct-vis ; 
And how I once went down the middle 

With the man that shot Sandy McGee ; 

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping 
On the hill, when the time came to go ; 

Of the few baby peaks that were peeping 
From under their bedclothes of snow ; 

Of that ride, — that to me was the rarest ; 
Of — the something you said at the gate. 

VOL. I. L 



1 62 Her Letter. 

Ah ! Joe, then I wasn't an heiress 

To " the best-paying lead in the State." 

Well, well, it's all past ; yet it's funny 

To think, as I stood in the glare 
Of fashion and beauty and money, 

That I should be thinking, right there, 
Of some one who breasted high water, 

And swam the North Fork, and all that, 
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, 

The Lily of Poverty Flat. 

But goodness ! what nonsense I'm writing ! 

(Mamma says my taste still is low). 
Instead of my triumphs reciting, 

I'm spooning on Joseph, — heigh-ho ! 
And I'm to be " finished " by travel, — 

Whatever's the meaning of that. 
Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel 

In drifting on Poverty Flat ? 

Good night ! — here's the end of my paper ; 

Good night ! — if the longitude please, — 
For maybe, while wasting my taper, 

Your sun's climbing over the trees. 
But know, if you haven't got riches. 

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, 
That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches. 

And you've struck it, — on Poverty Flat. 



( i63 ) 



^18 awtDcr to "Jpct Ecttec," 

(reported by truthful JAMES.) 

Being asked by an intimate party, — 

Which the same I would term as a friend, — 

Though his health it were vain to call hearty, 
Since the mind to deceit it might lend ; 

For his arm it was broken quite recent. 

And there's something gone wrong with his lung,- 

Which is why it is proper and decent 

I should write what he runs off his tongue. 

First, he says. Miss, he's read through your letter 

To the end, — and " the end came too soon ; " 
That a " slight illness kept him your debtor," 

(Which for weeks he was wild as a loon) ; 
That " his spirits are buoyant as yours is ; " 

That with you, Miss, he " challenges Fate," 
(Which the language that invalid uses 

At times it were vain to relate). 

And he says " that the mountains are fairer 
For once being held in your thought ; " 

That each rock " holds a wealth that is rarer 
Than ever by gold-seeker sought" 



164 His Answer to ^'Her Letter^' 

(Which are words he would put in these pages, 

By a party not given to guile ; 
Though the claim not, at date, paying wages, 

Might produce in the sinful a smile.) 



He remembers the ball at the Ferry, 

And the ride, and the gate, and the vow, 
And the rose that you gave him, — that very 

Same rose he is "treasuring now." 
(Which his blanket he's kicked on his trunk. Miss, 

And insists on his legs being free ; 
And his language to me from his bunk, Miss, 

Is frequent and painful and free.) 



He hopes you are wearing no willows, 

But are happy and gay all the while ; 
That he knows — (which this dodging of pillows 

Imparts but small ease to the style, 
And the same you will pardon) — he knows, Miss, 

That, though parted by many a mile, 
*' Yet, were he lying under the snows. Miss, 

They'd melt into tears at your smile." 



And " you'll still think of him in your pleasures. 

In your brief twilight dreams of the past ; 
In this green laurel spray that he treasures, — 

It was plucked where your parting was last j 
In this specimen, — but a small trifle, — 

It will do for a pin for your shawl." 
(Which, the truth not to wickedly stifle, 

Was his last week's " clean up," — and his all.) 



His Answer to ''Her Letter." 165 

He's asleep, which the same might seem strange^ Miss, 

Were it not that I scorn to deny 
That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss, 

In view that his fever was high ; 
But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive. 

And now, my respects, Miss, to you ; 
Which my language, although comprehensive, 

Might seem to be freedomj it's true. 

Which I have a small favour to ask you, 
As concerns a bull-pup, and the same, — 

If the duty would not overtask you, — 

- You would please to procure for me, game ; 

And send per express to the Flat, Miss, — 
For they say York is famed for the breed. 

Which, though words of deceit may be that, Miss, 
I'll trust to your taste. Miss, indeed. 

P.S. — Which this same interfering 

Into other folks' way I despise ; 
Yet if it so be I was hearing 

That it's just empty pockets as lies 
Betwixt you and Joseph, it follers 

That, having no family claims. 
Here's my pile, which it's six hundred dollars, 

As is yours, with respects, 

Truthful James. 



( ^66 ) 



" Cfie meturn of IBtli&mm." 

(mud flat, i860.) 

So you're back from your travels, old fellow, 

And you left but a twelvemonth ago ; 
You've hobnobbed with Louis Napoleon, 

Eugenie, and kissed the Pope's toe. 
By Jove, it is perfectly stunning, 

Astounding, — and all that, you know; 
Yes, things are about as you left them 

In Mud Flat a twelvemonth ago. 

The boys ! — they're all right, — Oh ! Dick Ashley, 

He's buried somewhere in the snow ; 
He was lost on the Summit last winter, 

And Bob has a hard row to hoe. 
You knew that he's got the consumption ? 

You didn't ! Well come, that's a go ; 
I certainly wrote you at Baden, — 

Dear me ! that was six months ago. 

I got all your outlandish letters, 

All stamped by some foreign P.O. 
I handed myself to Miss Mary 

That sketch of a famous chateau. 



^^The Retu7'-n of Belisarius.''' 167 

Tom Saunders is living at 'Frisco, — 

They say that he cuts quite a show 
You didn't meet Euchre-deck Billy 

Anywhere on your road to Cairo ? 



So you thought of the rusty old cabin, 

The pines, and the valley below, 
And heard the North Fork of the Yuba 

As you stood on the banks of the Po ? 
'Twas just like your romance, old fellow; 

But now there is standing a row 
Of stores on the site of the cabin 

That you lived in a twelvemonth aga 

But it's jolly to see you, old fellow, — 

To think it's a twelvemonth ago ! 
And you have seen Louis Napoleon, 

And look like a Johnny Crapaud. 
Come in. You will surely see Mary, — 

You know we are married. What, no ?- 
Oh, ay ! I forgot there was something 

Between you a twelvemonth ago. 



( i68 ) 



JFuttJer Language from Ctutfiful 3Iamej8f* 

(NYE's ford, STANISLAUS, 1870.) 

Do I sleep ? do I dream ? 
Do I wonder and doubt ? 
Are things what they seem ? 
Or is visions about ? 
Is our civiUsation a failure ? 
Or is the Caucasian played out ? 

Which expressions are strong; 

Yet would feebly imply 

Some account of a wrong — 

Not to call it a lie — 

As was worked off on William, my pardner, 

And the same being W. Nye. 

He came down to the Ford 

On the very same day 

Of that lottery drawed 

By those sharps at the Bay ; 

And he says to me, " Truthful, how goes it ? " 

I replied, "It is far, far from gay ; 



Further Language from Truthful James. 169 

" For the camp has gone wild 

On this lottery game, 

And has even beguiled 

* Injin Dick ' by the same." 

Then said Nye to me, " Injins is pizen : 

But what is his number, eh ? James?" 



I replied, " 7,2, 
9,8,4, is his hand ;" 
When he started, and drew 
Out a list, which he scanned ; 
Then he softly went for his revolver 
With language I cannot command. 

Then I said, "William Nye !" 

But he turned upon me. 

And the look in his eye 

Was quite painful to see ; 

And he says, " You mistake ; this poor Injin 

I protects from such sharps as you be ! " 

I was shocked and withdrew j 

But I grieve to relate. 

When he next met my view 

Injin Dick was his mate ; 

And the two around town was a-lying 

In a frightfully dissolute state. 

Which the war dance they had 
Round a tree at the Bend 
Was a sight that was sad ; 
And it seemed that the end 



70 Further Language from Truthful James, 

Would not justify the proceedings, 
As I quiet remarked to a friend. 



For that Injin he fled 

The next day to his band ; 

And we found William spread 

Very loose on the strand, 

With a peaceful-like smile on his features, 

And a dollar greenback in his hand ; 

Which the same, when rolled out^ 
We observed, with surprise, 
Was what he, no doubt, 
Thought the number and prize — 
Them figures in red in the corner, 
Which the number of notes specifies. 

Was it guile, or a dream ? 

Is it Nye that I doubt ? 

Are things what they seem ? 

Or is visions about ? 

Is our civilisation a failure ? 

Or is the Caucasian played out ? 



( 171 ) 



after tje HcciDent 

(mouth of the shaft.) 

What I want is my husband, sir,- 
And if you're a man, sir, 

You'll give me an answer, — 
Where is my Joe ? 

Penrhyn, sir, Joe, — 

Caernarvonshire. 
Six months ago 

Since we cam.e here— 
Eh ? — Ah, you know ! 

Well, I am quiet 

And still. 
But I must stand here, 

And will ! 
Please, I'll be strong. 

If you'll just let me wait 

Inside o' that gate 
Till the news comes along. 

" Negligence ! " — 
That was the cause ! — 
Butchery ! 



172 After the Accident. 

Are there no laws, — 

Laws to protect such as we ? 

Well, then ! 

I won't raise my voice. 
There, men ! 

I won't make no noise, 
Only you just let me be. 

Four, only four — did he say — 
Saved,! and the other ones? — Eh? 

Why do they call ? 

Why are they all 
Looking and coming this way ? 

What's that ? — a message? 

I'll take it. 
I know his wife, sir, 

I'll break it. 

"Foreman !" 

Ay, ay ! 

*' Out by and by,— 

Just saved his life. 

Say to his wife 

Soon he'll be free." 
Will I ?— God bless you ! 

It's me ! 



( ^1Z ) 



Cfie (raoj8ft tjat 31int @)ata» 

Why, as to that, said the engineer, 
Ghosts ain't things we are apt to fear j 
Spirits don't fool with levers much, 
And throttle-valves don't take to such. 

And as for Jim, 

What happened to him 
Was one half fact and t'other half whim ! 

Running one night on the line, he saw 
A house — as plain as the moral law — 
Just by the moonlit bank, and thence 
Came a drunken man with no more sense 

Than to drop on the rail 

Flat as a flail, 
As Jim drove by with the midnight mail. 

Down went the patents — steam reversed. 
Too late ! for there came a "thud." Jim cursed 
As the fireman, there in the cab with him, 
Kinder stared in the face of Jim, 

And says, " What now ? " 

Says Jim, " What now ! 
I've just run over a man, — that's how 1 " 



1 74 The Ghost that Jim Saw. 

The fireman stared at Jim. They ran 
Back, but they never found house nor man,- 
Nary a shadow within a mile. 
Jim turned pale, but he tried to smile, 

Then on he tore 

Ten mile or more. 
In quicker time than he'd made afore. 



Would you believe it ! the very next night 
Up rose that house in the moonlight white, 
Out comes the chap and drops as before, 
Down goes the brake and the rest encore ; 

And so, in fact, 

Each night that act 
Occurred, till folks swore Jim was cracked. 



umph ! let me see ; it's a year now, 'most, 
That I met Jim, East, and says, " How's your ghost? " 
" Gone," says Jim ; " and more, it's plain 
That ghost don't trouble me again. 

I thought I shook 

That ghost when I took 
A place on an Eastern line, — but look ! 



" What should I meet, the first trip out, 

But the very house we talked about. 

And the selfsame man ! ' Well,' says I, * I guess 

It's time to stop this 'yer foolishness.' 

So I crammed on steam. 

When there came a scream 
From my fireman, that jest broke my dream : 



The Ghost that Jim Saw. 175 

" ' You've killed somebody ! ' Says I, * Not much ! 
I've been thar often, and thar ain't no such, 
And now I'll prove it ! * Back we ran, 
And, — darn my skin ! — but thar was a man 

On the rail, dead, 

Smashed in the head ! — 
Now I call that meanness ! " That's all Jim said. 



( 176 ) 



(mr. interviewer interviewed.) 

Know me next time when you see me, won't you, old 

smarty ? 
Oh, I mean you, old figger-head, — ^just the same party ! 
Take out your pensivil, d — n you \ sharpen it, do ! 
Any complaints to make ? Lot's of 'em — one of 'em's you. 

You ! who are you, anyhow, goin' round in that sneakin' 

way? 
Never in jail before, was you, old blatherskite, say? 
Look at it ; don't it look pooty ? Oh, grin, and be d— d to 

you, do ! 
But if I had you this side o' that gratin', I'd just make it 

lively for you. 

How did I get in here? Well what 'ud you give to know? 
'Twasn't by sneakin' round where I hadn't no call to go : 
'Twasn't by hangin' round a-spyin' unfortnet men. 
Grin ! but I'll stop your jaw if ever you do that agen. 

Why don't you say suthin, blast you ? Speak your mind if 

you dare. 
Ain't I a bad lot, sonny ? Say it, and call it square. 



^^Seventy-Nine" 177 

Hain't got no tongue, hey, hev ye ? O guard ! here's a 

little swell 
A cussin' and swearin' and yellin', and bribin' me not to 

tell. 



There ! I thought that 'ud fetch ye ! And you want to know 
my name ? 

" Seventy-nine " they call me, but that is their little game ; 

For I am werry highly connected, as a gent, sir, can under- 
stand, 

And my family hold their heads up with the very furst in 
the land. 



For 'twas all, sir, a put-up job on a pore young man like 

me; 
And the jury was bribed a puppos, and at furst they couldn't 

agree ; 
And I sed to the judge, sez I, — Oh, grin ! it's all right, my 

son ! 
But you're a werry lively young pup, and you ain't to be 

played upon ! 

Wot's that you got ? — tobacco ? I'm cussed but I thought 

'twas a tract. 
Thank ye ! A chap t'other day — now, lookee, this is a 

fact — 
Slings me a tract on the evils o' keepin' bad company. 
As if all the saints was howlin' to stay here along o' we. 

No, I hain't no complaints. Stop, yes ; do you see that 

chap, — 
Him standin' over there, a-hidin' his eyes in his cap ? 

VOL. I. M 



178 " Seventy- Nine. " 

Well, that man's stumick is weak, and he can't stand the 
pris'n fare ; 

For the coffee is just half beans, and the sugar it ain't no- 
where. 

Perhaps it's his bringin' up ; but he's sickenin' day by day, 
And he doesn't take no food, and I'm seein' him waste 

away. 
And it isn't the thing to see ; for, whatever he's been and 

done, 
Starvation isn't the plan as he's to be saved upon. 

For he cannot rough it like me ; and he hasn't the stamps, 

I guess, 
To buy him his extry grub outside o' the pris'n mess. 
And perhaps if a gent like you, with whom I've been sorter 

free, 
Would — thank you ! But, say ! look here ! Oh, blast it ! 

don't give it to me ! 

Don't you give it to me ; now, don't ye, don't ye, donH! 
You think it's a put-up job ; so I'll thank ye, sir, if you 

won't. 
But hand him the stamps yourself : why, he isn't even my 

pal; 
And, if it's a comfort to you, why, I don't intend that he 

shall 



( 179 ) 



It was the stage-driver's story, as he stood with his back to 

the wheelers, 
Quietly flecking his whip, and turning his quid of tobacco ; 
While on the dusty road, and blent with the rays of the 

moonlight, 
We saw the long curl of his lash and the juice of tobacco 

descending. 

" Danger ! Sir, I believe you, — indeed, I may say, on that 

subject. 
You your existence might put to the hazard and turn of a 

wager. 
I have seen danger ? Oh, no ! not me, sir, indeed, I assure 

you : 
'Twas only the man with the dog that is sitting alone in yon 



" It was the Geiger Grade, a mile and a half from the sum- 
mit : 

Black as your hat was the night, and never a star in the 
heavens. 

Thundering down the grade, the gravel and stones we sent 
flying 

Over the precipice side, — a thousand feet plumb to the 
bottom. 



i8o The Stage-Driver's Story. 

" Half-way down the grade I felt, sir, a thrilling and creak- 
ing, 

Then a lurch to one side, as we hung on the bank of the 
canon ; 

Then, looking up the road, I saw, in the distance behind 
me. 

The off hind wheel of the coach, jiist loosed from its axle, 
and following. 



" One glance alone I gave, then gathered together my rib- 
bons, 

Shouted, and flung them, outspread, on the straining necks 
of my cattle ; 

Screamed at the top of my voice, and lashed the air in my 
frenzy. 

While down the Geiger Grade, on three wheels, the vehicle 
thundered. 



" Speed was our only chance, when again came the ominous 
rattle : 

Crack, and another wheel slipped away, and was lost in the 
darkness. 

Two only now were left ; yet such was our fearful momen- 
tum, 

Upright, erect, and sustained on two wheels, the vehicle 
thundered. 



"As some huge bowlder, unloosed from its rocky shelf on 

the mountain, 
Drives before it the hare and the timorous squirrel, far 

leaping, 



The Stage-Driver's Story. 



i«i 



So down the Geiger Grade rushed the Pioneer coach, and 

before it 
Leaped the wild horses, and shrieked in advance of the 

danger impending. 

" But to be brief in my tale. Again, ere we came to the 

level, 
Slipped from its axle a wheel ; so that, to be plain in my 

statement, 
A matter of twelve hundred yards or more, as the distance 

may be. 
We travelled upon one wheel, until we drove up to the 

station. 

" Then, sir, we sank in a heap ; but, picking myself from the 

ruins, 
I heard a noise up the grade; and looking, I saw in the 

distance 
The three wheels following still, like moons on the horizon 

whirling. 
Till, circling, they gracefully sank on the road at the side of 

the station. 

" This is my story, sir ; a trifle, indeed, I assure you. 
Much more, perchance, might be said — but I hold him of 

all men most lightly 
Who swerves from the truth in his tale. No, thank you — 

Well, since you are pressing. 
Perhaps I don't care if I do : you may give me the same, 

Jim, — no sugar," 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



( i85 ) 



(0re^pott Eegenti. 

(1797.) 

They ran through the streets of the seaport town, 
They peered from the decks of the ships that lay ; 
The cold sea-fog that came whitening down 
Was never as cold or white as they. 

" Ho, Starbuck and Pinckney and Tenterden ! 

Run for your shallops, gather your men, 
Scatter your boats on the lower bay. ' 

Good cause for fear ! In the thick mid-day 

The hulk that lay by the rotting pier, 

Filled with the children in happy play, 

Parted its moorings and drifted clear, — 

Drifted clear beyond the reach or call, — 
Thirteen children they were in all, — 
All adrift in the lower bay ! 

Said a hard-faced skipper, " God help us all ! 

She will not float till the turning tide ! " 

Said his wife, " My darling will hear my call. 

Whether in sea or heaven she bide," 

And she lifted a quavering voice and high. 
Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry, 

Till they shuddered and wondered at her side. 



1 86 A Greyport Legend. 

The fog drove down on each labouring crew, 
Veiled each from each and the sky and shore : 
There was not a sound but the breath they drew, 
And the lap of water and creak of oar ; 

And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown 
O'er leagues of clover and cold grey stone, 
But not from the lips that had gone before. 

They come no more. But they tell the tale, 

That, when fogs are thick on the harbour reef, 

The mackerel fishers shorten sail ; 

For the signal they know will bring relief : 
For the voices of children, still at play 
In a phantom hulk that drifts alway 

Through channels whose waters never fail 

It is but a foolish shipman's tale, 

A theme for a poet's idle page ; 

But still, when the mists of doubt prevail, 

And we lie becalmed by the shores of Age, 
We hear from the misty troubled shore 
The voice of the children gone before, 
Drawing the soul to its anchorage. 



( i87 ) 



^ 3l5et)port Eomance* 

They say that she died of a broken heart 

(I tell the tale as 'twas told to me) ; 
But her spirit lives, and her soul is part 

Of this sad old house by the sea. 

Her lover was fickle and fine and French : 

It was nearly a hundred years ago 
When he sailed away from her arms — poor wench !- 

With the Admiral Rochambeau. 

I marvel much what periwigged phrase 
Won the heart of this sentimental Quaker, 

At what golden-laced speech of those modish days 
She listened — the mischief take her ! 

But she kept the posies of mignonette 

That he gave ; and ever as their bloom failed 

And faded (though with her tears still wet) 
Her youth with their own exhaled. 

Till one night, when the sea-fog wrapped a shroud 
Round spar and spire and tarn and tree, 

Her soul went up on that lifted cloud 
From this sad old house by the sea. 



1 88 A Newport Romance. 

And ever since then, when the clock strikes two, 
She walks unbidden from room to room, 

And the air is filled that she passes through 
With a subtle, sad perfume. 

The delicate odour of mignonette. 

The ghost of a dead and gone bouquet, 

Is all that tells of her story ; yet, 
Could she think of a sweeter way ? 

• •»■•• 

I sit in the sad old house to-night, — 
Myself a ghost from a farther sea ; 

And I trust that this Quaker woman might, 
In courtesy, visit me. 

For the laugh is fled from porch and lawn, 
And the bugle died from the fort on the hill. 

And the twitter of girls on the stairs is gone, 
And the grand piano is still. 

Somewhere in the darkness a clock strikes two ; 

And there is no sound in the sad old house. 
But the long veranda dripping with dew. 

And in the wainscot a mouse. 

The light of my study-lamp streams out 
From the library door, but has gone astray 

In the depths of the darkened hall. Small doubt 
But the Quakeress knows the way. 

Was it the trick of a sense o'erwrought 
With outward watching and inward fret ? 

But I swear that the air just now was fraught 
With the odour of mignonette ! 



A Newport Romance. 189 

I open the window, and seem almost — 
So still lies the ocean — to hear the beat 

Of its Great Gulf artery off the coast, 
And to bask in its tropic heat. 

In my neighbour's windows the gas-lights flare, 
As the dancers swing in a waltz of Strauss ; 

And I wonder now could I fit that air 
To the song of this sad old house. 

And no odour of mignonette there is 

But the breath of morn on the dewy lawn j 

And mayhap from causes as shght as this 
The quaint old legend is born. 

But the soul of that subtle, sad perfume, 
As the spiced embalmings, they say, outlast 

The mummy laid in his rocky tomb, 
Awakens my buried past. 

And I think of the passion that shook my youth, 

Of its aimless loves and its idle pains, 
And am thankful now for the certain truth 

That only the sweet remains. 

And I hear no rustle of stiff brocade. 

And I see no face at my hbrary door ; 
For now that the ghosts of my heart are laid, 

She is viewless for evermore. 

But whether she came as a faint perfume, 

Or whether a spirit in stole of white, 
I feel, as I- pass from the darkened room, 

She has been with my soul to-night ! 



( 190 ) 



©an Jfrancfeco^ 

(from the sea.) 

Serene, indifferent of Fate, 
Thou sittest at the Western Gate ; 

Upon thy height, so lately won. 
Still slant the banners of the sun ; 

Thou seest the white seas strike their tents, 
O Warder of two Continents ! 

And, scornful of the peace that flies 
Thy angry winds and sullen skies, 

Thou drawest all things, small or great. 
To thee, beside the Western Gate. 

a. . • • • • 

lion's whelp, that hidest fast 

In jungle growth of spire and mast ! 

1 know thy cunning and thy greed, 
Thy hard high lust and wilful deed, 

And all thy glory loves to tell 
Of specious gifts material 



San Francisco. 191 

Drop down, O Fleecy Fog, and hide 
Her sceptic sneer and all her pride ! 

Wrap her, O Fog, in gown and hood 
Of her Franciscan Brotherhood. 

Hide me her faults, her sin and blame ; 
With thy grey mantle cloak her shame ! 

So shall she, cowled, sit and pray 
Till morning bears her sins away. 

Then rise, O Fleecy Fog, and raise 
The glory of her coming days ; 

Be as the cloud that flecks the seas 
Above her smoky argosies ; 

When forms familiar shall give place 
To stranger speech and newer face ; 

When all her throes and anxious fears 
Lie hushed in the repose of years ; 

When Art shall raise and Culture lift 
The sensual joys and meaner thrift, 

And all fulfilled the vision we 
Who watch and wait shall never see, 

Who, in the morning of her race, 
Toiled fair or meanly in our place, 

But, yielding to the common lot, 
Lie unrecorded and forgot. 



( 192 ) 



Cfje cpountain !E>eart'0-'(2Ba0e» 

By scattered rocks and turbid waters shining, 

By furrowed glade and dell, 
To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting, 

Thou stayest them to tell 

The delicate thought that cannot find expressioHj 

For ruder speech too fair, 
That, like thy petals, trembles in possession, 

And scatters on the air. 

The miner pauses in his rugged labour, 

And, leaning on his spade, 
Laughingly calls unto his comrade-neighbour 

To see thy charms displayed. 

But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises, 

And for a moment clear 
Some sweet home face his foolish thought surprises 

And passes in a tear, — 

Some boyish vision of his Eastern village, 

Of uneventful toil, 
Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage 

Above a peaceful soil. 



The Mountain Hearfs-Ease. 193 

One moment only, for the pick, uplifting, 

Through root and fibre cleaves, 
And on the muddy current slowly drifting 

Are swept thy bruised leaves. 

And yet, O poet, in thy homely fashion, 

Thy work thou dost fulfil, 
For on the turbid current of his passion 

Thy face is shining still ! 



VOL. t 



I 194 ) 



Coward, — of heroic size, 
In whose lazy muscles lies 
Strength we fear and yet despise ; 
Savage, — whose relentless tusks 
Are content with acorn husks ; 
Robber, — whose exploits ne'er soared 
O'er the bee's or squirrel's hoard ; 
Whiskered chin and feeble nose, 
Claws of steel on baby toes, — 
Here, in solitude and shade, 
Shambling, shuffling plantigrade, 
Be thy courses undismayed ! 

Here, where Nature makes thy bed, 
Let thy rude, half-human tread 

Point to hidden Indian springs, 
Lost in ferns and fragrant grasses. 

Hovered o'er by timid wings. 
Where the wood-duck lightly passes, 
Where the wild bee holds her sweets,- 
Epicurean retreats. 
Fit for thee, and better than 
Fearful spoils of dangerous man. 



Grizzly, 195 

In thy fat-jowled deviltry 
Friar Tuck shall live in thee ; 
Thou mayst levy tithe and dole ; 

Thou shalt spread the woodland cheer, 
From the pilgrim taking toll ; 

Match thy cunning with his fear ; 
Eat, and drink, and have thy fill ; 
Yet remain an outlaw still 1 



( 196 ) 



Captain of the Western wood, 
Thou that apest Robin Hood ! 
Green above thy scarlet hose, 
How thy velvet mantle shows ; 
Never tree like thee arrayed. 
Oh thou gallant of the glade ! 



When the fervid August sun 
Scorches all it looks upon, 
And the balsam of the pine 
Drips from stem to needle fine, 
Round thy compact shade arranged, 
Not a leaf of thee is changed ! 



When the yellow autumn sun 
Saddens all it looks upon, 
Spreads its sackcloth on the hills, 
Strews its ashes in the rills. 
Thou thy scarlet hose dost doff, 
And in limbs of purest buff 
Challengest the sombre glade 
For a sylvan masquerade. 



Madrono. 197 

Where, O where, shall he begin 
Who would paint thee, Harlequin ? 
With thy waxen burnished leaf, 
With thy branches' red relief, 
With thy polytinted fruit, — 
In thy spring or autumn suit, — 
Where begin, and oh ! where end, — 
Thou whose charms all art transcend ? 



( 198 ) 



13L0WN out of the prairie in twilight and dew, 
Half bold and half timid, yet lazy all through ; 
Loath ever to leave, and yet fearful to stay, 
He limps in the clearing, an outcast in grey. 

A shade on the stubble, a ghost by the wall, 
Now leaping, now limping, now risking a fall, 
Lop-eared and large jointed, but ever alway 
A thoroughly vagabond outcast in grey. 

Here, Carlo, old fellow, — he's one of your kind, — 
Go, seek him, and bring him in out of the wind. 
What ! snarling, my Carlo ! So even dogs may 
Deny their own kin in the outcast in grey. 

Well, take what you will, — though it be on the sly, 
Marauding, or begging, — I shall not ask why ; 
But will call it a dole, just to help on his way 
A four-footed friar in orders of grey I 



( ^99 ) 



Co a ^ea^lBirti* 

(SANTA CRUZ, 1869.) 

Sauntering hither on listless wings, 

Careless vagabond of the sea, 
Little thou heedest the surf that sings, 
The bar that thunders, the shale that rings, — 

Give me to keep thy company. 

Little thou hast, old friend, that's new, 
Storms and wrecks are old things to thee ; 

Sick am I of these changes, too ; 

Little to care for, little to rue, — 
I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 

All of thy wanderings, far and near, 

Bring thee at last to shore and me ; 
All of my journeyings end them here, 
This our tether must be our cheer, — 
I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 

Lazily rocking on ocean's breast. 

Something in common, old friend, have we ; 
Thou on the shingle seek'st thy nest, 
I to the waters look for rest, — 

I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 



( 200 ) 



Over the chimney the night-wind sang 
And chanted a melody no one knew ; 

And the Woman stopped, as her babe she tossed, 
And thought of the one she had long since lost, 

And said, as her tear-drops back she forced, 
" I hate the wind in the chimney." 



Over the chimney the night-wind sang 
And chanted a melody no one knew ; 

And the Children said, as they closer drew, 

" 'Tis some witch that is cleaving the black night 
through, — 

'Tis a fairy trumpet that just then blew, 
And we fear the wind in the chimney." 



Over the chimney the night- wind sang 
And chanted a melody no one knew ; 

And the Man, as he sat on his hearth below, 
Said to himself, " It will surely snow, 

And fuel is dear and wages low. 

And I'll stop the leak in the chimney." 



What the Chimney Sang. 20 x 

Over the chimney the night-wind sang 
And chanted a melody no one knew ; 

But the Poet listened and smiled, for he 

Was Man, and Woman, and Child, all three, 

And said, " It is God's own harmony, 
This wind we hear in the chimney." 



( 202 } 



^kUm in CamjEi* 

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, 

The river sang below ; 
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 

Their minarets of snow. 

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted 

The ruddy tints of health 
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted 

In the fierce race for wealth ; 

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure 

A hoarded volume drew. 
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure 

To hear the tale anew. 

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, 

And as the firelight fell, 
He read aloud the book wherein the Master 

Had writ of " Little Nell." 

Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy, — for the reader 

Was youngest of them all, — 
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 

A silence seemed to fall ; 



Dickens in Camp. 203 

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, 

Listened in every spray, 
While the whole camp, with " Nell " on English meadows 

Wandered and lost their way. 

And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken 

As by some spell divine — 
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken 

From out the gusty pine. 

Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire : 

And he who wrought that spell ? — 
Ah ! towering pine and stately Kentish spire. 

Ye have one tale to tell ! 

Lost is that camp, but let its firagrant story 

Blend with the breath that thrills 
With hop-vine's incense all the pensive glory 

That fills the Kentish hills. 

And on that grave where English oak and holly 

And laurel wreaths entwine, 
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, — 

This spray of Western pine ! 



July, 1870. 



( 204 ) 



t( 



Ctoentg geatj8f/' 



Beg your pardon, old fellow ! I think 
I was dreaming just now when you spoke. 
The fact is, the musical clink 
Of the ice on your wine-goblet's brink 
A chord of my memory woke. 

And I stood in the pasture-field where 
Twenty summers ago I had stood ; 
And I heard in that sound, I declare, 
The clinking of bells in the air, 
Of the cows coming home from the wood. 

Then the apple-bloom shook on the hill ; 
And the mullein-stocks tilted each lance ; 
And the sun behind Rapalye's mill 
Was my uttermost West, and could thrill 
Like some fanciful land of romance. 



Then my friend was a hero, and then 
My girl was an angel. In fine, 
I drank buttermilk ; for at ten 
Faith asks less to aid her than when 
At thirty we doubt over wine. 



^^ Twenty Years." 205 

Ah ! well, it does seem that I must 

Have been dreaming just now when you spoke. 

Or lost, very like, in the dust 

Of the years that slow fashioned the crust 

On that bottle whose seal you last broke. 

Twenty years was its age, did you say ? 
Twenty years ? Ah ! my friend, it is true ? 
All the dreams that have flown since that day, 
All the hopes in that time passed away, 
Old friend, I've been drinking with you ! 



( 206 ) 



" The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare ! 
The spray of the tempest is white in air ; 
The winds are out with the waves at play, 
And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. 

" The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, 
The panther clings to the arching limb ; 
And the lion's whelps are abroad at play, 
And I shall not join in the chase to-day." 

But the ship sailed safely over the sea, 
And the hunters came from the chase in glee ; 
And the town that was builded upon a rock 
Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock 



( 207 ) 



(0ranDmot{)et: CenterDen* 

(MASSACHUSETTS SHORE, 180O.) 

I MIND it was but yesterday, — 
The sun was dim, the air was chill; 
Below the town, below the hill, 
The sails of my son's ship did fill, — 

My Jacob, who was cast away. 

He said, " God keep you, mother dear," 
But did not turn to kiss his wife ; 
They had some foolish, idle strife ; 
Her tongue was like a two-edged knife, 

And he was proud as any peer. 

Howbeit that night I took no note 
Of sea nor sky, for all was drear ; 
I marked not that the hills looked near, 
Nor that the moon, though curved and clear, 

Through curd-like scud did drive and float. 

For with my darling went the joy 
Of autumn woods and meadows brown j 
I came to hate the little town ; 
It seemed as if the sun went down, 

With him, my only darling boy. 



2o8 Grandmother Tenterden. 

It was the middle of the night, 
The wind it shifted west-by-south ; 
It piled high up the harbour mouth ; 
The marshes, black with summer drouth, 

Were all abroad with sea-foam white. 

It was the middle of the night, — 
The sea upon the garden leapt, 
And my son's wife in quiet slept, 
And I, his mother, waked and wept. 

When lo ! there came a sudden light. 

And there he stood ! his seaman's dress 
All wet and dripping seemed to be ; 
The pale blue fires of the sea 
Dripped from his garments constantly, — 

I could not speak through cowardness. 

" I come through night and storm," he said ; 
" Through storm and night and death," said he, 
" To kiss my wife, if it so be 
That strife still holds 'twixt her and me, 

For all beyond is peace," he said. 

" The sea is His, and He who sent 
The wind and wave can soothe their strife ; 
And brief and foolish is our life." 
He stooped and kissed his sleeping wife, 

Then sighed, and, like a dream, he went. 

Now, when my darling kissed not me. 
But her — his wife — who did not wake, 
My heart within me seemed to break ; 
I swore a vow, nor thenceforth spake 

Of what my clearer eyes did see. 



Grandmother Tenterden. 209 

And when the slow weeks brought him not, 
Somehow we spake of aught beside, 
For she, — her hope upheld her pride ; 
And I, — in me all hope had died, 

And my son passed as if forgot. 

It was about the next spring-tide, 
She pined 'and faded where she stood ; 
Yet spake no word of ill or good ; 
She had the hard, cold, Edwards' blood 

In all her veins, — and so she died. 

One time I thought, before she passed. 
To give her peace ; but ere I spake 
Methought, " He will be first to break 
The news in heaven," and for his sake 

I held mine back until the last. 

And here I sit, nor care to roam j 
I only wait to hear his call ; 
I doubt not that this day next fall 
Shall see me safe in port, where all 

And every ship at last comes home. 

And you have sailed the Spanish Main, 
And knew my Jacob ? . . . Eh ! Mercy ! 
Ah ! Gpd of wisdom ! hath the sea 
Yielded its dead to humble me ? 

My boy ! ... My Jacob ! . . . Turn again 1 



VOL. I. 



( 210 } 



William Guild was engineer of the train which on the 19th 
of April plunged into Meadow Brook, on the line of the 
Stonington and Providence Railroad. It was his custom, 
as often as he passed his home, to whistle an " All's well " 
to his wife. He was found, after the disaster, dead, with 
his hand on the throttle-valve of his engine. 

Two low whistles, quaint and clear, 
That was the signal the engineer — 

That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said— 
Gave to his wife at Providence, 
As through the sleeping town, and thence, 
Out in the night, 
On to the light, 
Down past the farms, lying white, he sped ! 

As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt^ 
Yet to the woman looking out, 

Watching and waiting, no serenade, 
Love song, or midnight roundelay 
Said what that whistle seemed to say : 
" To my trust true, 
So love to you ! 
Working or waiting, good night ! " it said. 



Guild^s Signal. 211 

Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine, 
Old commuters along the line, 

Brakemen and porters glanced ahead, 
Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense. 
Pierced through the shadows of Providence : 
" Nothing amiss — 
Nothing ! — it is 
Only Guild calling his wife," they said. 

Summer and winter the old refrain 
Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain, 

Pierced through the budding boughs o'erhead 
Flew down the track when the red leaves burned 
Like living coals from the engine spurned ; 
Sang as it flew : 
" To our trust true. 
First of all, duty. Good night ! " it said. 

And then, one night, it was heard no more 
From Stonington over Rhode Island shore, 

And the folk in Providence smiled and said 
As they turned in their beds, " The engineer 
Has once forgotten his midnight cheer." 
One only knew, 
To his trust true. 
Guild lay under his engine dead. 



{ 212 ) 



(a chemical narrative.) 

Certain facts which serve to explain 
The physical charms of Miss Addie De Laine, 
Who, as the common reports obtain, 
Surpassed in complexion the lily and rose ; 
With a very sweet mouth and a refroussS nose ; 
A figure like Hebe's, or that which revolves 
In a milliner's window, and partially solves 
That question which mentor and moralist pains, 
If grace may exist viinus feeling or brains. 

Of course the young lady had beaux by the score, 
All that she wanted, — what girl could ask more ? 
Lovers that sighed, and lovers that swore. 
Lovers that danced, and lovers that played, 
Men of profession, of leisure, and trade ; 
But one, who was destined to take the high part 
Of holding that mythical treasure, her heart, — 
This lover — the wonder and envy of town — • 
Was a practising chemist, — a fellow called Brown. 

I might here remark that 'twas doubted by many. 
In regard to the heart, if Miss Addie had any ; 



Aspiring Miss De Laine. 213 

But no one could look in that eloquent face, 
With its exquisite outline and features of grace,. 
And mark, through the transparent skin, how the tide 
Ebbed and flowed at the impulse of passion or pride, — 
None could look who believed in the blood's circulation 
As argued by Harvey, but saw confirmation 
That here, at least. Nature had triumphed o'er art, 
And, as far as complexion went, she had a heart. 



But \Kis par parenthesis. Brown was the man 

Preferred of all others to carry her fan. 

Hook her glove, drape her shawl, and do all that a belle 

May demand of the lover she wants to treat well. 

Folks wondered and stared that a fellow called Brown — 

Abstracted and solemn, in manner a clown, 

111 dressed, with a lingering smell of the shop — 

Should appear as her escort at party or hop. 

Some swore he had cooked up some villanous charm, 

Or love philter, not in the regular Pharm- 

Acopoeia, and thus, from pure malice prepense, 

Had bewitched and bamboozled the young lady's sense; 

Others thought, with more reason, the secret to lie 

In a magical wash or indelible dye ; 

While Society, with its censorious eye 

And judgment impartial, stood ready to damn 

What wasn't improper as being a sham. 

For a fortnight the townfolk had all been agog 
With a party, the finest the season had seen, 
To be given in honour of Miss PoUywog, 
Who was just coming out as a belle of sixteen. 
The guests were invited ; but one night before 
A carriage drew up at the modest back-door 



214 Aspiring Miss De Laine. 

Of Brown's lab'ratory, and, full in the glare 
Of a big purple bottle, some closely-veiled fair 
Alighted and entered : to make matters plain. 
Spite of veils and disguises, 'twas Addie De Laine. 



As a bower for true love, 'twas hardly the one 
That a lady would choose to be wooed in or won : 
No odour of rose or sweet jessamine's sigh 
Breathed a fragrance to hallow their pledge of troth by, 
Nor the balm that exhales from the odorous thyme ; 
But the gaseous effusions of chloride of lime, 
And salts, which your chemist delights to explain 
As the base of the smell of the rose and the drain. 
Think of this, O ye lovers of sweetness ! and know 
What you smell when you snuff up Lubin or Pinaud. 



I pass by the greetings, the transports and bliss, 

Which, of course, duly followed a meeting like this, 

And come down to business ; — for such the intent 

Of the lady who now o'er the crucible leant, 

In the glow of a furnace of carbon and lime, 

Like a fairy called up in the new pantomime , — 

And give but her words as she coyly looked down, 

In reply to the questioning glances of Brown : 

•' I am taking the drops, and am using the paste. 

And the little white powders that had a sweet taste, 

Which you told me would brighten the glance of my eye, 

And the depilatory, and also the dye. 

And I'm charmed with the trial ; and now, my dear Brown, 

I have one other favour, — now, ducky, don't frown, — 

Only one, for a chemist and genius like you 

But a trifle, and one you can easily do. 



Aspiring Miss De Laine. 2 1 5 

Now listen : to-morrow, you know, is the night 

Of the birthday soii'ee of that PoUywog fright ; 

And I'm to be there, and the dress I shall wear 

Is too lovely ; but " — " But what then, ma chereV^ 

Said Brown, as the lady came to a full stop, 

And glanced round the shelves of the little back shop. 

" Well, I want — I want something to fill out the skirt 

To the proper dimensions, without being girt 

In a stiff crinoline, or caged in a hoop 

That shows through one's skirt like the bars of a coop ; 

Something Hght, that a lady may waltz in, or polk, 

With a freedom that none but you masculine folk 

Ever know. For, however poor woman aspires. 

She's always bound down to the earth by these wires. 



Are you listening ? Nonsense ! don't stare like a spoon, 

Idiotic j some light thing, and spacious, and soon — 

Something like — well, in fact — something like a balloon !" 

Here she paused ; and here Brown, overcome by surprise. 

Gave a doubting assent with still wondering eyes. 

And the lady departed. But just at the door 

Something happened, — 'tis true, it had happened before 

In this sanctum of science, — a sibilant sound. 

Like some element just from its trammels unbound, 

Or two substances that their affinities found. 

The night of the anxiously-looked-for soiree 

Had come, with its fair ones in gorgeous array ; 

With the rattle of wheels and the tinkle of bells, 

And the " How do ye do's," and the " Hope you are well's ; " 

And the crush in the passage, and last lingering look 

You give as you hang your best hat on the hook ; 

The rush of hot air as the door opens wide ; 

And your entry, — that blending of self-possessed pride 



2 1 6 Aspiring Miss De Laine. 

And humility shown in your perfect-bred stare 
At the folk, as if wondering how they got there j 
With other tricks worthy of Vanity Fair. 
Meanwhile the safe topic, the heat of the room, 
Already was loosing its freshness and bloom ; 
Young people were yawning, and wondering when 
The dance would come off, and why didn't it then : 
When a vague expectation was thrilling the crowd, 
Lo ! the door swung its hinges with utterance proud ! 
And Pompey announced, with a trumpet-like strain, 
The entrance of Brown and Miss Addie De Laine. 

She entered ; but oh ! how imperfect the verb 
To express to the senses her movement superb ! 
To say that she " sailed in " more clearly might tell 
Her grace in its buoyant and billowy swell. 
Her robe was a vague circumambient space, 
With shadowy boundaries made of point-lace. 
The rest was but guesswork, and well might defy 
The power of critical feminine eye 
To define or describe : 'twere as futile to try 
The gossamer web of the cirrus to trace, 
Floating far in the blue of a warm summer sky. 

'Midst the humming of praises and the glances of beaux, 
That greet our fair maiden wherever she goes. 
Brown slipped like a shadow, grim, silent, and black. 
With a look of anxiety, close in her track. 
Once he whispered aside in her delicate ear 
A sentence of warning, — it might be of fear : 
" Don't stand in a draught, if you value your life." 
(Nothing more, — such advice might be given your wife 
Or your sweetheart, in times of bronchitis and cough, 
Without mystery, romance, or frivolous scoff.) ' 



Aspiring Miss De Laine. 217 

But hark to the music : the dance has begun. 

The closely-draped windows wide open are flung ; 

The notes of the piccolo, joyous and light, 

Like bubbles burst forth on the warm summer night. 

Roundabout go the dancers ; in circles they fly ; 

Trip, trip, go their feet as their skirts eddy by; 

And swifter and lighter, but somewhat too plain, 

Whisks the fair circumvolving Miss Addie De Laine. 

Taglioni and Cerito well might have pined 

For the vigour and ease that her movements combined ; 

E'en Rigelboche never flung higher her robe 

In the naughtiest city that's known on the globe. 

'Twas amazing, 'twas scandalous : lost in surprise, 

Some opened their mouths, and a few shut their eyes. 

But hark ! At the moment Miss Addie De Laine, 
Circling round at the outer edge of an ellipse 
Which brought her fair form to the window again, 
From the arms of her partner incautiously slips ! 
A.nd a shriek fills the air, and the music is still, 
And the crowd gather round where her partner forlorn 
Still frenziedly points from the wide window-sill 
Into space and the night ; for Miss Addie was gone ! 
Gone like the bubble that bursts in the sun ; 
Gone hke the grain when the reaper is done ; 
Gone like the dew on the fresh morning grass ; 
Gone without parting farewell ; and alas ! 
Gone with a flavour of hydrogen gas ! 



When the weather is pleasant, you frequently meet 
A white-headed man slowly pacing the street ; 
His trembling hand shading his lack-lustre eye. 
Half-blind with continually scanning the sky. 



2 1 8 Aspiring Miss De Laine. 

Rumour points him as some astronomical sage, 
Re-perusing by day the celestial page ; 
But the reader, sagacious, will recognise Brown, 
Trying vainly to conjure his lost sweetheart down, 
And learn the stern moral this story must teach. 
That Genius may lift its love out of its reach. 



( 219 ) 



legenD of Cologne^ 

Above the bones 
St. Ursula owns, 
And those of the virgins she chaperones ; 
Above the boats, 
And the bridge that floats, 
And the Rhine and the steamers' smoky throats j 
Above the chimneys and quaint-tiled roofs, 
Above the clatter of wheels and hoofs ; 
Above Newmarket's open space, 
Above that consecrated place 
Where the genuine bones of the Magi seen are, 
And the dozen shops of the real Farina ; 
Higher than even old Hohestrasse, 
Whose houses threaten the timid passer: 
Above them all, 
Through scaffolds tall 
And spires like delicate limbs in splinters, 
The great Cologne's 
Cathedral stones 
Climb through the storms of eight hundred winters 

Unfinished there, 
In high mid-air 
The towers halt like a broken prayer ; 



220 A Legend of Cologne. 

Through years belated, 

Unconsummated, 
The hope of its architect quite frustrated. 

Its very youth 

They say, forsooth, 
With a quite improper purpose mated j 

And every stone 

With a curse of its own 
Instead of that sermon Skakespeare stated, 

Since the day its choir. 

Which all admire, 
By Cologne's Archbishop was consecrated. 

Ah ! that was a day, 

One well might say, 
To be marked with the largest, whitest stone 
To be found in the towers of all Cologne ! 

Along the Rhine, 

From old Rheinstein, 
The people flowed like their own good wine. 

From Rudesheim, 

And Geisenheim, 
And every spot that is known to rhyme ; 
From the famed Cat's Castle of St. Goarshausen, 
To the pictured roofs of Assmannshausen, 

And down the track. 

From quaint Schwalbach 
To the clustering tiles of Bacharach ; 

From Bingen, hence 

To old Coblentz : 
From every castellated crag, 
Where the robber chieftains kept their "swag," 
The folk flowed in, and Ober-Cassel 
Shone with the pomp of knight and vassal ; 



A Legend of Cologne. 221 

And pouring in from near and far, 
As the Rhine to its bosom draws the Ahr, 
Or takes the arm of the sober Mosel, 
So in Cologne, knight, squire, and losel, 
Choked up the city's gates with men 
From old St. Stephen to Zint Mdrjen, 

What had they come to see ? Ah me ! 
I fear no glitter of pageantry, 

Nor sacred zeal 

For Church's weal, 
Nor faith in the virgins' bones to heal ; 

Nor childlike trust in frank confession 
Drew these, who, dyed in deep transgressioiij 

Still in each nest 

On every crest 
Kept stolen goods in their possession j 

But only their gout 

For something new, 
More rare than the " roast " of a wandering Jew 5 

Or — to be exact — 

To see — in fact — 
A Christian soul, in the very act 
Of being damned, secundtwi artem, 
By the devil, before a soul could part 'em. 

For a rumour had flown 
Throughout Cologne, 
That the church, in fact, was the devil's own ; 
That its architect 
(Being long "suspect") 
Had confessed to the bishop that he had wreckt 
Not only his ow?i soul, but had lost 
The very first Christian soul that crossed 



222 A Legend of Cologne. 

The sacred threshold ; and all, in fine, 
For that very beautiful design 
Of the wonderful choir 
They were pleased to admire. 
And really, he must be allowed to say^ 
To speak in a purely business way — 
That, taking the ruling market prices 
Of souls and churches, in such a crisis 
It would be shown — 
And his Grace must own — 
It was really a bargain for Cologne ! 

Such was the tale 

That turned cheeks pale 
With the thought that the enemy might prevail, 

And the church doors snap 

With a thunder-clap 
On a Christian soul in that devil's trap. 

But a wiser few, 

Who thought that they knew 
Cologne's Archbishop, replied, " Pooh, pooh ! 

Just watch him and wait. 

And as sure as fate. 
You'll find that the Bishop will give checkmate." 

One here might note 

How the popular vote. 
As shown in all legends and anecdote 

Declares that a breach 

Of trust to o'erreach 
The devil is something quite proper for each. 

And, really, if you 

Give the devil his due 
In spite of the proverb — it's something you'll rue. 



A Legend of Cologne. 223 

But to lie and deceive him, 

To use and to leave him, 
From Job up to Faust is the way to receive him. 

Though no one has heard 

It ever averred 
That the " Father of Lies " ever yet broke his word, 

But has left this position, 

In every tradition, 
To be taken alone by the " truth-loving " Christian 1 

Bom ! from the tower ! 

It is the hour ! 
The host pours in, in its pomp and power 

Of banners and pyx. 

And high crucifix, 
And crosiers and other processional sticks, 

And no end of Marys 

In quaint reliquaries ; 
To gladden the souls of all true antiquaries ; 

And an Osculum Pads — 

(A myth to the masses 
Who trusted their bones more to mail and cuirasses), 

All borne by the throng 

Who are marching along 
To the square of the Dom with processional song, 

With the flaring of dips, 

And bending of hips, 
And the chanting of hundred perfunctory lips j 

And some good little boys 

Who had come up from Neuss 
And the QuirinusMrche to show off their voice : 

All march to the square 

Of the great Dom, and there 
File right and left, leaving alone and quite bare 



224 -^ Legend of Cologne. 

A covered sedan, 
Containing — so ran 
The rumour — the victim to take off the ban. 



They have left it alone, 

They have sprinkled each stone 
Of the porch with a sanctified Eau de Cologne^ 

Guaranteed in this case 

To disguise every trace 
Of a sulphurous presence in that sacred place. 

Two Carmelites stand 

On the right and left hand 
Of the covered sedan chair, to wait the command 

Of the prelate to throw 

Up the cover and show 
The form of the victim in terror below. 

There's a pause and a prayer, 

Then the signal, and there — 
Is a woman ! — by all that is good and is fair ! 



A woman ! and known 

To them all — one must own 

Too well known to the many, to-day to be shown 
As a martyr, or e'en 
As a Christian ! A queen 

Of pleasaunce and revel, of glitter and sheen j 
So bad that the worst 
Of Cologne spake up first, 

And declared 'twas an outrage to suffer one curst, 
And already a fief 
Of the Satanic chief, 

To martyr herself for the Church's relief. 



A Legend of Cologne. 225 

But in vain fell their sneer 
On the mob, who I fear 
On the whole felt a strong disposition to cheer. 

A woman ! and there 

She stands in the glare 
Of the pitiless sun and their pitying stare — 

A woman still young, 

With garments that clung 
To a figure, though wasted with passion and wrung 

With remorse and despair, 

Yet still passing fair. 
With jewels and gold in her dark shining hair, 

And cheeks that are faint 

'Neath her dyes and her paint— 
A woman most surely — but hardly a saint ! 

She moves. She has gone 

From their pity and scorn ; 

She has mounted alone 

The first step of stone, 
And the high swinging doors she wide open has thrown, 

Then pauses and turns, 

As the altar blaze burns 
On her cheeks, and with one sudden gesture she spurns 

Archbishop and Prior, 

Knight, ladye, and friar, 
And her voice rings out high from the vault of the choir. 

*' Oh, men of Cologne ! 
What I was ye have known ; 
Wliat I am, as I stand here, One knoweth alone. 
If it be but His will 
I shall pass from Him still, 

VOL. I. P 



226 A Legend of Cologne. 

Lost, curst, and degraded, I reckon no ill ; 

If still by that sign 

Of His anger divine 
One soul shall be saved, He hath blessed more than mine. 

Oh, men of Cologne ! 

Stand forth if ye own 
A faith like to this, or more fit to atone, 

And take ye my place. 

And God give you grace 
To stand and confront Him, like me, face to face 1 " 

She paused. Yet aloof 

They all stand. No reproof 
Breaks the silence that fills the celestial roof. 

One instant — no more — 

She halts at the door. 
Then enters ! . . . A flood from the roof to the floor 

Fills the church rosy red. 

She is gone ! 

But instead, 
Who is this leaning forward with glorified head 

And hands stretched to save ? 

Sure this is no slave 
Of the Powers of Darkness, with aspect so brave I 

They press to the door. 

But too late ! All is o'er. 
Nought remains but a woman's form prone on the floor. 

But they still see a trace 

Of that glow in her face 
That they saw in the light of the altar's high blaze 

On the image that stands 

With the babe in its hands 
Enshrined in the churches of all Christian lands. 



A Legend of Cologne. 227 

A Te Deum sung, 

A censer high swung, 
With praise, benediction, and incense wide-flung, 

Proclaim that the airse 

Is retjioved — and no worse 
Is the Dom for the trial — in fact, the reverse ; 

For instead of their losing 

A soul in abusing 
The Evil One's faith, they gained one of his choosing. 

Thus the legend is told : 

You will find in the old 
Vaulted aisles of the Dom, stiff in marble or cold 

In iron and brass, 

In gown and cuirass, 
The knights, priests, and bishops who came to that Mass ; 

And high o'er the rest, 

With her babe at her breast, 
The image of Mary Madonna the blest. 

But you look round in vain, 

On each high pictured pane, 
For the woman most worthy to walk in her train. 

Yet, standing to-day 

O'er the dust and the clay, 
'Midst the ghosts of a life that has long passed away, 

With the slow- sinking, sun 

Looking softly upon 
That stained-glass procession, I scarce miss the one 

That it does not reveal, 

For I know and I feel 
That these are but shadows — the woman was real ! 



( 228 ) 



Cfje Cale of a Pon^* 

Name of my heroine, simply "Rose;" 
Surname, tolerable only in prose ; 
Habiiat, Paris, — that is where 
She resided for change of air ; 
^tat. twenty ; complexion fair, 
Rich, good-looking, and dehonnaire. 
Smarter than Jersey-lightning — There ! 
That's her photograph, done with care. 

In Paris, whatever they do besides, 
Every lady in full dress rides ! 
Moire antiques you never meet 
Sweeping the filth of a dirty street j 
But every woman's claim to ton 

Depends upon 
The team she drives, whether phaeton, 
Landau, or britzka. Hence it's plain 
That Rose, who was of her toilet vain, 
Should have a team that ought to be . 
Equal to any in all Paris ! 

" Bring forth the horse ! " The cominissaire 
Bowed, and brought Miss Rose a pair 
Leading an equipage rich and rare. 
Why doth that lovely lady stare ? 



The Tale of a Pony. 229 

Why ? The tail of the off grey mare 
Is bobbed, by all that's good and fair \ 
Like the shaving-brushes that soldiers wear, 
Scarcely showing as much back-hair 
As Tam O'Shanter's " Meg,"— and there, 
Lord knows, she'd little enough to spare. 

That stare and frown the Frenchman knew, 

But did as well-bred Frenchmen do : 

Raised his shoulders above his crown, 

Joined his thumbs with the fingers down, 

And said, " Ah Heaven ! " — then, " Mademoiselle 

Delay one minute, and all is well ! " 

He went— returned ; by what good chance 

These things are managed so well in France 

I cannot say, — but he made the sale 

And the bob -tailed mare had a flowing tail. 

All that is false in this world below 

Betrays itself in a love of show ; 

Indignant Nature hides her lash 

In the purple-black of a dyed mustache ; 

The shallowest fop will trip in French, 

The would-be critic will misquote Trench ; 

In short, you're always sure to detect 

A sham in the things folks most affect; 

Bean-pods are noisiest when dry. 

And you always wink with your weakest eye : 

And that's the reason the old grey mare 

Forever had her tail in the air, 

With flourishes beyond compare, 

Though every whisk 

Incurred the risk 
Of leaving that sensitive region bare, — 



230 The Tale of a Pony. 

She did some things that you couldn't but feel 
She wouldn't have done had her tail been reaL 



Champs Elysdes : Time, past five ; 
There go the carriages, — look alive ! 
Everything that man can drive, 
Or his inventive skill contrive, — 
Yankee buggy or English " chay," 
Dog-cart, droschky, and smart coup6, 
A desohligeante quite bulky 
(French idea of a Yankee sulky) ; 
Band in the distance playing a march, 
Footmen standing stiff as starch ; 
Savans, lorettes, deputies, Arch- 
Bishops, and there together range 
^^Zifi'-lieutenants and ^^;z/-gardes (strange 
Way these soldier-chaps make change), 
Mixed with black-eyed Polish dames, 
With unpronounceable awful names ; 
Laces tremble and ribbons flout. 
Coachmen wrangle and gendarmes shout,— 
Bless us ! what is the row about ? 
Ah ! here comes Rosy's new turn-out ! 
Smart ! You bet your life 'twas that ! 
Nifty ! (short for niagiiificai). 
Mulberry panels, — heraldic spread, — 
Ebony wheels picked out with red. 
And two grey mares that were thorough-bred; 
No wonder that every dandy's head 
Was turned by the turn-out, — and 'twas said 
That Caskowhisky (friend of the Czar), 
A very good whip (as Russians are). 
Was tied to Rosy's triumphal car. 



The Tale of a Pony. 231 

Entranced, the reader will understand, 

By " ribbons " that graced her head and hand. 



Alas ! the hour you think would crown 

Your highest wishes should let you down ! 

Or Fate should turn, by your own mischance, 

Your victor's car to an ambulance ; 

From cloudless heavens her lightnings glance, 

(And these things happen, even in France). 

And so Miss Rose, as she trotted by, 

The cynosure of every eye, — 

Saw to her horror the off mare shy, — 

Flourish her tail so exceedingly high 

That, disregarding the closest tie, 

And without giving a reason why, 

She flung that tail so free and frisky 

Oif in the face of Caskowhisky. 

Excuses, blushes, smiles : in fine, 
End of the pony's tail, and mine ! 



( 232 ) 



£Dn a Cone of tU TBig ^vzt$, 

(sequoia gigantea.) 

Brown foundling of the Western wood, 

Babe of primeval wildernesses ! 
Long on my table thou hast stood 

Encounters strange and rude caresses j 
Perchance contented with thy lot, 

Surroundings new and curious faces, 
As though ten centuries were not 

Imprisoned in thy shining cases. 

Thou bring'st me back the halcyon days 

Of grateful rest, the week of leisure, 
The journey lapped in autumn haze, 

The sweet fatigue that seemed a pleasure, 
The morning ride, the noonday halt, 

The blazing slopes, the red dust rising, 
And then the dim, brown, columned vault, 

With its cool, damp, sepulchral spicing. 

Once more I see the rocking masts 
That scrape the sky, their only tenant 

The jay-bird, that in frolic casts 

From some high yard his broad blue pennant 



On a Cone of the Big Trees. 233 

I see the Indian files that keep 

Their places in the dusty heather, 
Their red trunks standing ankle-deep 

In moccasins of rusty leather. 



I see all this, and marvel much 

That thou, sweet woodland waif, art able 
To keep the company of such 

As throng thy friend's — the poet's — table : 
The latest spawn the press hath cast, — • 

The " modern Pope's " " the later Byron's,"- 
Why e'en the best may not outlast 

Thy poor relation, — Sempervirens. 



Thy sire saw the light that shone 

On Mohammed's uplifted crescent, 
On many a royal gilded throne 

And deed forgotten in the present \ 
He saw the age of sacred trees 

And Druid groves and mystic larches ; 
And saw from forest domes like these 

The builder bring his Gothic arches. 



And must thou, foundling, still forego 

Thy heritage and high ambition. 
To lie full lowly and full low, 

Adjusted to thy new condition ? 
Not hidden in the drifted snows, 

But under ink-drops idly spattered, 
And leaves ephemeral as those 

That on thy wooldand tomb were scattered ? 



234 On a Cone of the Big Trees » 

Yet lie thou there, O friend ! and speak 

The moral of thy simple story : 
Though life is all that thou dost seek, 

And age alone thy crown of glory, — 
Not thine the only germs that fail 

The purpose of their high creation, 
If their poor tenements avail 

For worldly show and ostentation. 



C 235 ) 



Lone ^ountaim 

(cemetery, SAN FRANCISCO.) 

This is that hill of awe 
That Persian Sindbad saw, — 

The mount magnetic ; 
And on its seaward face. 
Scattered along its base, 

The wrecks prophetic. 



Here come the argosies 
Blown by each idle breeze, 

To and fro shifting ; 
Yet to the hill of Fate 
All drawing, soon or late, — 

Day by day drifting ;— 



Drifting forever here 
Barks that for many a year 

Braved wind and weather ; 
Shallops but yesterday 
Launched on yon shining bay, — 

Drawn all together. 



236 Lone Mountain. 

This is the end of all : 
Sun thyself by the wall, 

O poorer Hindbad ! 
Envy not Sindbad's fame : 
Here come alike the same 

Hindbad and Sindbad. 



( 237 ) 



Here's yer toy balloons ! All sizes ! 
Twenty cents for that. It rises 
Jest as quick as that 'ere, Miss, 
Twice as big. Ye see it is 
Some more fancy. Make it square 
Fifty for 'em both. That's fair. 



That's the sixth I've sold since noon. 
Trade's reviving. Just as soon 
As this lot's worked off, I'll take 
Wholesale figgers. Make or break, 
That's my motto ! Then I'll buy 
In some first-class lottery 
One half ticket, numbered right — 
As I dreamed about last night. 



That'll fetch it. Don't tell me I 
When a man's in luck, you see, 
All things help him. Every chance 
Hits him like an avalanche. 
Here's your toy balloons, Miss. Eh ? 
You won't turn your face this way ? 
Mebbe you'll be glad some day 



238 Alnaschar. 

With that clear ten thousand prize 
This 'yer trade I'll drop, and rise 
Into wholesale. No ! I'll take 
Stocks in Wall Street. Make or break, 
That's my motto ! With my luck, 
Where's the chance of being stuck ? 
Call it sixty thousand, clear, 
Made in Wall Street in one yeair. 

Sixty thousand ! Umph ! Let's see ! 
Bond and mortgage'll do for me. 
Good ! That gal that passed me by 
Scornful like — why, mebbe I 
Some day'U hold in pawn — why not ? 
All her father's prop. She'll spot 
What's my little game, and see 
What I'm after's her. He ! he ! 

He ! he ! When she comes to sue— 
Let's see ! What's the thing to do ? 
Kick her ? No ! There's the perliss ! 
Sorter throw her off like this. 
Hello! Stop! Help! Murder! Hey! 
There's my whole stock got away, 
Kiting on the house-tops ! Lost ! 
All a poor man's fortin ! Cost ? 
Twenty dollars ! Eh ! What's this ? 
Fifty cents ! God bless ye, Miss 1 



( 239 ) 



As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest, 

Looking over the ultimate sea ; 
In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest, 

And one sails away from the lea : 
One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track, 

With pennant and sheet flowing free ; 
One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback, — 

The ship that is waiting for me ! 

But lo ! in the distance the clouds break away, 

The Gate's glowing portals I see ; 
And I hear from the outgoing ship in the bay 

The song of the sailors in glee. 
So I think of the luminous footprints that bore 

The comfort o'er dark Galilee, 
And wait for the signal to go to the shor^ 

To the ship that is waiting for me. 



( 240 ) 



(opening of the CALIFORNIA THEATRE, SAN FRANCISCO| 
JANUARY 19, 1870). 

Brief words, when actions wait, are well : 
The prompter's hand is on his bell ; 
The coming heroes, lovers, kings, 
Are idly lounging at the wings ; 
Behind the curtain's mystic fold 
The glowing future lies unrolled, — 
And yet, one moment for the Past ; 
One retrospect, — the first and last. 

"The world's a stage," the Master said. 
To-night a mightier truth is read : 
Not in the shifting canvas screen, 
The flash of gas or tinsel sheen ; 
Not in the skill whose signal calls 
From empty boards baronial halls ; 
But, fronting sea and curving bay, 
Behold the players and the play. 

Ah, friends ! beneath your real skies 
The actor's short-lived triumph dies : 
On that broad stage of empire won. 
Whose footlights were the setting sun. 



Address. 241 

Whose flats a distant background rose 
In trackless peaks of endless snows ; 
Here genius bows, and talent waits 
To copy that but One creates. 

Your shifting scenes : the league of sand, 

An avenue by ocean spanned ; 

The narrow beach of straggling tents, 

A mile of stately monuments ; 

Your standard, lo ! a flag unfurled, 

Whose clinging folds clasp half the world, — • 

This is your drama, built on facts, 

With " twenty years between the acts." 

One moment more : if here we raise 
The oft-sung hymn of local praise, 
Before the curtain facts must sway : 
Here waits the moral of your play. 
Glassed in the poet's thought, you view 
What niojiey can yet cannot do ; 
The faith that soars, the deeds that shine, 
Above the gold that builds the shrine. 

And oh ! when others take our place, 
And Earth's green curtain hides our face, 
Ere on the stage, so silent now. 
The last new hero makes his bow : 
So may our deeds, recalled once more 
In Memory's sweet but brief encore, 
Down all the circling ages run, 
With the world's plaudit of " Well done ! " 



VOL, I. 



( 242 ) 



2)011^ Hattsem 

Dear*Dolly ! who does not recall 
The thrilling page that pictured all 
Those charms that held our sense in thrall. 

Just as the artist caught her — 
As down that English lane she tripped, 
In bowered chintz, hat sideways tipped, 
Trim-bodiced, bright-eyed, roguish-lipped— 

The locksmith's pretty daughter ? 

Sweet fragment of the Master's art ! 
O simple faith ! O rustic heart ! 
O maid that hath no counterpart 

In life's dry, dog-eared pages ! 
Where shall we find thy like ? Ah, stay ! 
Methinks I saw her yesterday 
In chintz that flowered, as one might say, 

Perennial for ages. 

Her father's modest cot was stone, 
Five stories high ; in style and tone 
Composite, and, I frankly own, 

Within its walls revealing 
Some certain novel, strange ideas : 
A Gothic door with Roman piers. 
And floors removed some thousand years 

From their Pompeiian ceiling. 



Dolly Varden. 243 

The small salo7i where she received 
Was Louis Quatorze, and relieved 
By Chinese cabinets, conceived 

Grotesquely by the heathen ; 
The sofas were a classic sight — 
The Roman bench {sedilia hight) ; 
The chairs were French in gold and white, 

And one Elizabethan. 

And she, the goddess of that shrine, 
Two ringed fingers placed in mine — • 
The stones were many carats fine. 

And of the purest water — 
Then dropped a curtesy, far enough 
To fairly fill her cretonne puff 
And show the petticoat's rich stuff 

That her fond parent bought her. 

Her speech was simple as her dress — 
Not French the more, but English less, 
She loved ; yet sometimes, I confess, 

I scarce could comprehend her. 
Her manners were quite far from shy : 
There was a quiet in her eye 
Appalling to the Hugh who'd try 

With rudeness to offend her. 

"But whence," I cried, "this masquerade? 
Some figure for to-night's charade — 
A Watteau shepherdess or maid ? " 

She smiled and begged my pardon : 
"Why, surely you must know the name — 
That woman who was Shakespeare's flame 
Or Byron's — well, it's all the same : 

Why, Lord ! I'm Dolly Varden !" 



( 244 ) 



CeIemat|m0 uvm^ 6^enton 

Don't mind me, I beg you, old fellow, — I'll do very well 

here alone ; 
You must not be kept from your " German " because I've 

dropped in like a stone : 
Leave all ceremony behind you, leave all thought of aught 

but yourself; 
And leave, if you like, the Madeira, and a dozen cigars on 

the shelf. 

As for me, you will say to your hostess — well, I scarcely 

need give you a cue. 
Chant my praise ! All will list to Apollo, though Mercury 

pipe to a few. 
Say just what you please, my dear boy ; there's more 

• eloquence lies in youth's rash 
Outspoken heart-impulse than ever growled under this 

grizzling mustache. 

Go, don the dress coat of our tyrant — youth's panoplied 

armour for fight, 
And tie the white neckcloth that rumples, like pleasure, and 

lasts but a night. 
And pray the Nine Gods to avert you what time the Three 

Sisters shall frown, 
And you'll lose your high-comedy figure, and sit more ai 

ease in your gown 



Telemachus versus Mentor. 245 

He's oflf ! There's his foot on the staircase. By Jove what 

a bound ! Really now 
Did / ever leap like this springald, with Love's chaplet 

green on my brow ? 
Was / such an ass ? No, I fancy. Indeed I remember 

quite plain 
A gravity mixed with my transports, a cheerfulness softened 

my pain. ' 



He's gone ! There's the slam of his cab door, there's the 

clatter of hoofs and the wheels ; 
And while he the light toe is tripping in this arm-chair I'll 

tilt up my heels. 
He's gone, and for what ? For a tremor from a waist like 

a teetotum spun ; 
For a rosebud that's crumpled by many before it is gathered 

by one. 



Is there naught in the halo of youth but the glow of a 

passionate race — 
'Midst the cheers and applause of a crowd — to the goal 

of a beautiful face ? 
A race that is not to the swift, a prize that no merits 

enforce. 
But is won by soxae fai/ieatii youth, who shall simply walk 

over the course ? 



Poor boy ! shall I shock his conceit ? When he talks of her 

cheek's loveliness. 
Shall I say 'twas the air of the room, and was due to carbonic 

excess ? 



246 Telemackus versus Mentor. 

That when waltzing she drooped on his breast, and the 

veins of her eyelids grew dim, 
'Twas oxygen's absence she felt, but never the presence of 

him? 



Shall I tell him first love is a fraud, a weakling that's 

strangled in birth, 
Recalled with perfunctory tears, but lost in unsanctified 

mirth ? 
Or shall I go bid him believe in all womankind's charm, 

and forget 
In the light ringing laugh of the world the rattlesnake's gay 

Castanet ? 



Shall I tear out a leaf from my heart, from that book that 

forever is shut 
On the past ? Shall I speak of my first love — Augusta- — 

my Lalage ? But 
I forget. Was it really Augusta ? No. 'Twas Lucy ! No. 

Mary ! No. Di ! 
Never mind ! they were all first and faithless, and yet — I've 

forgotten just why. 



No, no ! Let him dream on and ever. Alas ! he will 

waken too soon ; 
And it doesn't look well for October to always be preaching 

at June. 
Poor boy ! All his fond foolish trophies pinned yonder — a 

bow from her hair, 
A few billets-doux, invitations, and — what's this ? My name, 

I declare ! 



Telemachus verstts Mentor. 247 

Humph ! " You'll come, for I've got you a prize, with 

beauty and money no end ; 
You know her, I think ; 'twas on dit she once was engaged 

to your friend ; 
But she says that's all over." Ah, is it ? Sweet Ethel ! 

incomparable maid ! 
Or — what if the thing were a trick ? — this letter so freely 

displayed ! — 

My opportune presence ! No ! nonsense ! Will nobody 

answer the bell? 
Call a cab ! Half past ten. Not too late yet. Oh, 

Ethel ! Why don't you go ! Well ? 
*' Master said you would wait — '^ Hang your master ! 

" Have I ever a message to send ? " 
Yes, tell him I've gone to the German to dance with the 

friend of his friend- 



( 248 ) 



miat t!)e CECloIf teaKg jSfaits to Little Eeti 
EiDmg#ooti» 

Wondering maiden, so puzzled and fair, 
Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare ? 
" Why are my eyelids so open and wild ? "— 
Only the better to see with, my child ! 
Only the better and clearer to view 
Cheeks that are rosy and eyes that are blue. 

Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these arms 
^, Fill thy soft bosom with tender alarms, 
Swaying so wickedly ? — are they misplaced 
Clasping or shielding some delicate waist : 
Hands whose coarse sinews may fill you with fear 
Only the better protect you, my dear ! 

Little Red Riding-Hood, when in the street, 
Why do I press your small hand when we meet ? 
Why, when you timidly offered your cheek, 
Why did I sigh, and why didn't I speak ? 
Why, well : you see — if the truth must appear — 
I'm not your grandmother, Riding-Hood, dear ! 



( 249 ) 



** So she's here, your unknown Dulcinea — the lady you met 

on the train — 
And you really believe she would know you if you were to 

meet her again ? " 

" Of course," he replied, " she would know me ; there never 

was womankind yet 
Forgot the effect she inspired. She excuses, but does not 

forget." 

"Then you told her your love?" asked the elder; the 

younger looked up with a smile : 
" I sat by her side half an hour — what else was I doing the 

while ? 

" What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the 

sky, 
And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from 

your own to her eye ? 

" No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and 

as bold as the look, 
And I held up herself to herself, — that was more than she 

got from her book." 



250 Half-an-Hour befo7^e Supper. 

"Young blood!" laughed the elder; "no doubt you are 

voicing the mode of To-Day : 
But then we old fogies at least gave the lady some chance 

for delay. 



" There's my wife — (you must know) — we first met on the 

journey from Florence to Rome : 
It took me three weeks to discover who was she and where 

was her home ; 



"Three nwre to be duly presented ; three more ere I saw 

her again ; 
And a year ere my romance iegati where yours ended that 

day on the train." 



" Oh, tfaat was the style of the stage-coach ; we travel to-day 

by express ; 
Forty miles to the hour," he answered, " won't admit of a 

passion that's less." 



" But what if you make a mistake ? " quoth the elder. The, 

younger half sighed : 
"What happens when signals are wrong or switches 

misplaced ? " he replied. 



" Very well, I must bow to your wisdom," the elder returned, 

" but submit 
Your chances of winning this woman your boldness has 

bettered no whit. 



Half -an-H our before Supper. 251 

" Why, you do not at best know her name. And what if I 

try your ideal 
With something, if not quite so fair, at least more en regie 

and real ? 



"Let me find you a partner. Nay, come, I insist — you 

shall follow — this way. 
My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Rapid 

to stay ? 

" My wife, Mr. Rapid — Eh, what ! Why, he's gone — ^yet he 

said he would come. 
How rude ! I don't wonder, my dear, you are properly 

crimson and dumb 1 " 



( 252 ) 



(EOJjat tje 'Bullet @)ang» 

O JOY of creation 
To be! 

rapture to fly 

And be free ! 
Be the battle lost or won, 
Though its smoke shall hide the sun, 

1 shall find my love — the one 

Born for me ! 

I shall know him where he stands. 

All alone, 
With the power in his hands 

Not o'erthrown ; 
I shall know him by his face, 
By his god-like front and grace ; 
I shall hold him for a space, 

All my own ! 

It is he — O my love 1 

So bold ! 
It is I— All thy love 

Foretold ! 
It is I. O love ! what bliss ! 
Dost thou answer to my kiss ? 
O sweetheart ! what is this 

Lieth there so cold ? 



PARODIES, ETC. 



( 255 ) 



OBefore tjje OTurtaim 

Behind the footlights hangs the rusty baize, 
A trifle shabby in the upturned blaze 
Of flaring gas and curious eyes that gaze. 

The stage, methinks, perhaps is none too wide, 

And hardly fit for royal Richard's stride, 

Or Falstaffs bulk, or Denmark's youthful pride. 

Ah, well ! no passion walks its humble boards ; 
O'er it no king nor valiant Hector lords : 
The simplest skill is all its space afi'ords. 

The song and jest, the dance and trifling play, 
The local hit at follies of the day. 
The trick to pass an idle hour away, — 

For these no trumpets that announce the Moor, 
No blast that makes the hero's welcome sure, — 
A single fiddle in the overture ! 



( 256 ) 



Co tlje pliocene %Mlt 

(a geological address.) 

" Speak, O man, less recent ! Fragmentary fossil ! 
Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, 
Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratunj 
Of volcanic tufa ! 

" Older than the beasts, the oldest Palseotherium j 
Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogam! ; 
Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions 
Of earth's epidermis ! 

" Eo — Mio — Pho — whatsoe'er the * cene ' was 
That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder,- 
Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches,-— 
Tell us thy strange story ! 

" Or has the professor slightly antedated 
By some thousand years thy advent on this planet, 
Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fitted 
For cold-blooded creatures ? 

" Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest 
When above thy head the stately Sigillaria 
Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant 
Carboniferous epoch ? 



To the Pliocene Skull, 257 

" Tell us of that scene, — the dim and watery woodland, 
Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect, 
Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club- 
mosses, 
Lycopodiacea, — 

"When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus, 
And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus, 
While from time to time above thee flew and circled 
Cheerful Pterodactyls. 

" Tell us of thy food, — those half-marine refections, 
Crinoids on the shell and Brachipods au natural^ — 
Cuttlefish to which the pieuvre of Victor Hugo 
Seems a periwinkle. 

" Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth's creation, — 
Solitary fragment of remains organic ! 
Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence, — 
Speak ! thou oldest primate ! " 

Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla, 
And a lateral movement of the condyloid process, 
With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication, 
Ground the teeth together. 

And, from that imperfect dental exhibition. 
Stained with express juices of the weed Nicotian, 
Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs 
Of expectoration : 

" Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted 
Falling down a shaft in Calaveras County, 
But Fd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces 
Home to old Missouri ! " 

VOL. I. R 



( 258 ) 



Clje QBallati of ^r. Coolie* 

(a legend of the cliff house, SAN FRANCISCO.) 

Where the sturdy ocean breeze 
Drives the spray of roaring seas, 
That the Cliff-House balconies 

Overlook : 
There, in spite of rain that balked, 
With his sandals duly chalked, 
Once upon a tight-rope walked 

Mr. Cooke. 

But the jester's lightsome mien, 
And his spangles and his sheen, 
All had vanished when the scene 

He forsook. 
Yet in some delusive hope, 
In some vague desire to cope, 
One still came to view the rope 

Walked by Cooke. 



Amid Beauty's bright array, 
On that strange eventful day. 
Partly hidden from the spray, 

In a nook. 



The Ballad of Mr. Cooke. 259 

Stood Florinda Vere de Vere ; 
Who, with wind-dishevelled hair, 
And a rapt, distracted air, 

Gazed on Cooke, 



Then she turned, and quickly cried 

To her lover at her side. 

While her form with love and pride 

Wildly shook : 
** Clifford Snook ! oh, hear me now ! 
Here I break each plighted vow ; 
There's but one to whom I bow, 

And that's Cooke ! ** 



Haughtily that young man spoke : 
*' I descend from noble folk ; 
'Seven Oaks,' and then 'Se'nnoak,' 

Lastly Snook, 
Is the way my name I trace. 
Shall a youth of noble race 
In affairs of love give place 

To a Cooke?" 



" Clifford Snook, I know thy claim 
To that lineage and name, 
And I think I've read the same 

In Home Tooke ; 
But I swear, by all divine. 
Never, never, to be thine, 
Till thou canst upon yon line 

Walk like Cooke." 



26o The Ballad of Mr. Cooke. 

Though to that gymnastic feat 
He no closer might compete 
Than to strike a balance-^'s.t\. 

In a book J 
Yet thenceforward, from that day, 
He his figure would display 
In some wild athletic way, 

After Cooke. 



On some household eminence, 
On a clothes-line or a fence, 
Over ditches, drains, and thence 

O'er a brook, 
He, by high ambition led, 
Ever walked and balanced. 
Till the people, wondering, said, 

"How like Cooke!" 



Step by step did he proceed, 
Nerved by valour, not by greed. 
And at last the crowning deed 

Undertook 
Misty was the midnight air. 
And the cliif was bleak and bare, 
When he came to do and dare. 

Just like Cooka 



Through the darkness, o'er the flow, 
Stretched the line where he should go, 
Straight across as flies the crow 

Or the rook : 



The Ballad of Mr. Cooke. 261 

One wild glance around he cast ; 
Then he faced the ocean blast, 
And he strode the cable last 

Touched by Cooke. 



Vainljr roared the angry seas, . 
Vainly blew the ocean breeze j 
But, alas ! the walker's knees 

Had a crook ; 
And before he reached the rock 
Did they both together knock, 
And he stumbled with a shock — 

Unlike Cooke ! 



Downward dropping in the dark, 
Like an arrow to its mark, 
Or a fish-pole when a shark 

Bites the hook. 
Dropped the pole he could not save, 
Dropped the walker, and the wave 
Swift engulfed the rival brave 

Of J. Cooke! 



Came a roar across the sea 
Of sea-lions in their glee, 
In a tongue remarkably 

Like Chinook ; 
And the maddened sea-gull seemed 
Still to utter, as he screamed, 
" Perish thus the wretch who deemed 

Himself Cooke ! " 



262 The Ballad of M 7'. Cooke, 

But on misty moon-lit nights 
Comes a skeleton in tights, 
Walks once more the giddy heights 

He mistook; 
And, unseen to mortal eyes. 
Purged of grosser earthly ties 
Now at last in spirit guise 

Outdoes Cooke. 



Still the sturdy ocean breeze 
Sweeps the spray of roaring seas, 
Where the Cliff-house balconies 

Overlook ; 
And the maidens in their prime, 
Reading of this mournful rhyme, 
Weep where, in the olden time, 

Walked J. Cooke. 



( 263 ) 



C6e OBailaD of tjje €meu» 

O SAY, have you seen at the Willows so green, — 

So charming and rurally true, — 
A singular bird, with a manner absurd, 

Which they call the Australian Emeu ? 

Have you 

Ever seen this Australian Emeu ? 

It trots all around with its head on the ground, 

Or erects it quite out of your view ; 
And the ladies all cry, when its figure they spy, 

" Oh ! what a sweet pretty Emeu ! 

Oh! do 

Just look at that lovely Emeu ! " 

One day to this spot, when the weather was hot, 
Came Matilda Hortense Fortescue ; 

And beside her there came a youth of high name,- 
Augustus riorell Montague : 

The two 
Both loved that wild, foreign Emeu. 

With two loaves of bread then they fed it, instead 
Of the flesh of the white cockatoo, 



2 64 The Ballad of the Emeu. 

Which once was its food in that wild neighbourhood 
Where ranges the sweet Kangaroo, 

That too 
Is game for the famous Emeu ! 



Old saws and gimlets but its appetite whets, 

Like the world-famous bark of Peru ; 
There's nothing so hard that the bird will discard, 

And nothing its taste will eschew, 

That you 

Can give that long-legged Emeu ! 

The time slipped away in this innocent play 

When up jumped the bold Montague : 
" Where's that specimen pin that 1 gayly did win 

In raffle, and gave unto you, 

Fortescue ? " 

No word spoke the guilty Emeu ! 

" Quick ! tell me his name whom thou gavest that same, 
Ere these hands in thy blood I embrue ! " 

"Nay, dearest," she cried, as she clung to his side, 
" I'm innocent as that Emeu ! " 

"Adieu!" 
He replied, " Miss M. H. Fortescue ! " 

Down she dropped at his feet, all as white as a sheet, 

As wildly he fled from her view ; 
He thought 'twas her sin, — for he knew not the pin 

Had been gobbled up by the Emeu ; 

All through 

The voracity of that Emeu ! 



( 265 ) 



^m lunge 3Ienliinsf» 

(BEING THE ONLY GENUINE SEQUEL TO " MAUD MULLER.") 

Maud Muller all that summer day 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay; 

Yet, looking down the distant lane, 
She hoped the Judge would come again. 

But when he came, with smile and bow, 

Maud only blushed, and stammered, "Ha-ow?" 

And spoke of her "pa," and wondered whether 
He'd give consent they should wed together. 

Old Muller burst in tears, and then 

Begged that the Judge would lend him " ten ; " 

For trade was dull, and wages low, 

And the " craps," this year, were somewhat slow. 

And ere the languid summer died, 
Sweet Maud became the Judge's bride. 



266 Mrs, Jtidge Jenkins. 

But, on the day that they were mated, 
Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated ; 



And Maud's relations, twelve in all, 
Were very drunk at the Judge's hall. 

And when the summer came again, 
The young bride bore him babies twain ; 

And the Judge was blest, but thought it strange 
That bearing children made such a change. 

For Maud grew broad and red and stout, 
And the waist that his arm once clasped about 

Was more than he now could span ; and he 
Sighed as he pondered, ruefully, 

How that which in Maud was native grace 
In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place ; 

And thought of the twins, and wished that they 
Looked less like the man who raked the hay 

On Miiller's farm, and dreamed with pain 
Of the day he wandered down the lane. 

And, looking down that dreary track, 
He half regretted that he came back. 

For, had he waited, he might have wed 
Some maiden fair and thoroughbred ; 



Mrs. Judge Jenkins. i2 6 7 

For there be women fair as she, 
Whose verbs and nouns do more agree. 

Alas for maiden ! alas for judge ! 

And the sentimental, — that's one-half " fudge ; " 

For Maud soon thought the Judge a bore, 
With all his learning and all his lore ; 

And the Judge would have bartered Maud's fair 

face 
For more refinement and social grace. 

If, of all words of tongue and pen, 
The saddest are, " It might have been,** 

More sad are these we daily see : 
" It is, but hadn't ought to be." 



( 268 ) 



H (Eeological ^atirigal* 

I HAVE found out a gift for my fair ; 

I know where the fossils abound, 
Where the footprints of Aves declare 

The birds that once walked on the ground ; 
Oh, come, and — in technical speech- 

We'll walk this Devonian shore, 
Or on some Silurian beach 

We'll wander, my love, evermore. 

I will show thee the sinuous track 

By the slow-moving annelid made, 
Or the Trilobite that, farther back, 

In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid j 
Thou shalt see, in his Jurassic tomb, 

The Plesiosaurus embalmed ; 
In his Oolitic prime and his bloom, 

Iguanodon safe and unharmed ! 

You wished — I remember it well, 

And I loved you the more for that wish — 
For a perfect cystedian shell 

And a w/io/e holocephalic fish. 
And oh, if Earth's strata contains 

In its lowest Silurian drift, 
Or palseozoic remains 

The same, — 'tis your lover's free gift ! 



A Geological MadrigaL 269 

Then come, love, and never say nay, 

But calm all your maidenly fears ; 
We'll note, love, in one summer's day 

The record of milUons of years ; 
And though the Darwinian plan 

Your sensitive feelings may shock, 
We'll find the beginning of man, — 

Our fossil ancestors, in rock ! 



( 270 ) 



(an aerial retrospect.) 

What was it filled my youthful dreams, 
In place of Greek or Latin themes, 
Or beauty's wild, bewildering beams ? 

Avitor ! 

What visions and celestial scenes 
I filled with aerial machines, 
Montgolfier's and Mr. Green's ! 

Avitor ! 

What fairy tales seemed things of course ! 
The roc that brought Sindbad across, 
The Calendar's own winged-horse ! 

Avitor ! ■ 

How many things I took for facts, — 
Icarus and his conduct lax, 
And how he sealed his fate with wax ! 

Avitor ! 

The first balloons I sought to sail, 
Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail, 
Or kites, — but thereby hangs a tail. 

Avitor ! 



Avitor. 271 

What made me launch from attic tall 
A kitten and a parasol, 
And watch their bitter, frightful fall ? 

Avitor ! 

What youthful dreams of high renown 
Bade me inflate the parson's gown, 
That went not up, nor yet came down ? 

Avitor ! 

My first ascent I may not tell ; 
Enough to know that in that well 
My first high aspirations fell. 

Avitor I 

My other failures let me pass : 
The dire explosions, and, alas ! 
The friends I choked with noxious gas. 

Avitor ! 

For lo ! I see perfected rise 
The vision of my boyish eyes, 
The messenger of upper skies. 

Avitor ! 



( 2/2 ) 



(after EDGAR ALT^AN POE.) 

The skies they were ashen and sober, 

The streets they were dirty and drear j 
It was night in the month of October, 

Of my most immemorial year. 
Like the skies, I was perfectly sober, 

As I stopped at the mansion of Shear, — 
At the Nightingale, — perfectly sober, 

And the willowy woodland down here. 

Here, once in an alley Titanic 

Of Ten-pins, — I roamed with my soul, — 

Of Ten-pins, — with Mary, my soul ; 
They were days when my heart was volcanic, 

And impelled me to frequently roll, 

And made me resistlessly roll, 
Till my ten-strikes created a panic 

In the realms of the Boreal pole, 
Till my ten-strikes created a panic 

With the monkey atop of his pole. 

I repeat, I was perfectly sober, 

But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,- 
My thoughts were decidedly queer ; 

For I knew not the month was October, 



The Willows. 273 

And I marked not the night of the year ; 
I forgot that sweet morceau of Auber 

That the band oft performed down here, 
And I mixed the sweet music of Auber 

With the Nightingale's music by Shear. 

And now as the night was senescent, 

And star-dials pointed to morn, 

And car-drivers hinted of morn, 
At the end of the path a liquescent 

And bibulous lustre was born ; 
*Twas made by the bar-keeper present, 

Who mixed a duplicate horn, — 
His two hands describing a crescent 

Distinct with a duplicate horn. 

And I said ; " This looks perfectly regal, 

For it's warm, and I know I feel dry, 

I am confident that I feel dry ; 
We have come past the emeu and eagle. 

And watched the gay monkey on high ; 
Let us drink to the emeu and eagle, — 

To the swan and the monkey on high, 

To the eagle and monkey on high ; 
For this bar-keeper will not inveigle,— 

Bully boy with the vitreous eye ; 
He surely would never inveigle, — 

Sweet youth with the crystalline eye." 

But Mary, uplifting her finger, 

Said, " Sadly 'this bar I mistrust,— 

I fear that this bar does not trust. 
Oh, hasten ! oh, let us not linger 

Oh, fly, — let us fly, — ere we must !" 



VOL. I. 



274 ^-^^ Willowi. 

In terror she cried, letting sink her 
Parasol till it trailed in the dust, — 

In agony sobbed, letting sink her 
Parasol till it trailed in the dust, — 
Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 

Then I pacified Mary and kissed her, 
And tempted her into the room, 
And conquered her scruples and gloom ; 

And we passed to the end of the vista. 

But were stopped by the warning of doom, — 
By some words that were warning of doom. 

And I said, "What is written, sweet sister. 
At the opposite end of the room ? " 

She sobbed, as she answered, " All liquors 
Must be paid for ere leaving the room." 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober, 
As the streets were deserted and ear, — 
For my pockets were empty and drear ; 

And I cried, " It was surely October, 
On this very night of last year. 
That I journeyed — I journeyed down here, — 
That I brought a fair maiden down here, 
On this night of all nights in the year. 
Ah ! to me that inscription is clear ; 

Well I know now, I'm perfectly sober, 
Why no longer they credit me here, — 

Well I know now that music of Auber, 
And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear. 



( 275 ) 



5l3ort{) lBmt% 

(after SPENSER.) 

Lo ! where the castle of bold Pfeiffer throws 
Its sullen shadow on the rolling tide, — 
No more the home where joy and wealth repose, 
But now where wassailers in cells abide ; 
See yon long quay that stretches far and wide, 
Well known to citizens as wharf of Meiggs ; 
There each sweet Sabbath walks in maiden pride 
Then pensive Margaret, and brave Pat, whose legs 
Encased in broadcloth oft keep time with Peg's. 

Here cometh oft the tender nursery-maid. 
While in her ear her love his tale doth pour ; 
Meantime her infant doth her charge evade, 
And rambleth sagely on the sandy shore, 
Till the sly sea-crab, low in ambush laid, 
Seizeth his leg and biteth him full sore. 
Ah me ! what sounds the shuddering echoes bore 
When his small treble mixed with Ocean's roar. 

Hard by there stands an ancient hostelrie, 

And at its side a garden, where the bear. 

The stealthy catamount, and coon agree 

To work deceit on all who gather there ; 

And when Augusta — that unconscious fair — 

With nuts and apples plieth Bruin free, 

Lo ! the green parrot claweth her back hair, 

And the grey monkey grabbeth fruits that she 

On her gay bonnet wears, and laugheth loud in glee ! 



( 276 ) 



CJe !L0j6ft Catljs? of 9^ilttm. 

High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover, 
Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian 

streamlet, 
She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr 
Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his 

chestnuts. 

Vainly the Msenid and the Bassarid gambolled about her, 

The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan — the renowned, the 
accomplished — 

Executed his difficult solo. In vain were their gambols and 
dances : 

High o'er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the shep- 
herdess, wailing. 

" Ai ! for the fleecy flocks, — the meek-nosed, the passionless 
faces ; 

Ai ! for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the high- 
stepping ; 

Ai ! for the timid glance, which is that which the rustic, 
sagacious. 

Applies to him who loves but may not declare his passion !" 



The L ost Tails of Miletus. 277 

Her then Zeus answered slow : " O daughter of song and 

sorrow, — 
Hapless tender of sheep, — arise from thy long lamentation ! 
Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as becomes a 

Greek maiden, 
Look and behold thy sheep." — And lo ! they returned to her 

tailless ! 



( ^1^ ) 



BY A COMMUNICANT OF " ST. JAMES'S." 

He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met ; 

A stole and snowy alb likewise : I recollect it yet. 

He called me " daughter," as he raised his jewelled hand to 
bless ; 

And then, in thriUing undertones, he asked, " Would I con- 
fess?" 

mother dear ! blame not your child, if then on bended 

knees 

1 dropped, and thought of Abelard, and also Eloise ; 

Or when, beside the altar high, he bowed before the pyx, 
I envied that seraphic kiss he gave the crucifix. 

The cruel world may think it wrong, perhaps may deem me 
weak. 

And, speaking of that sainted man, may call his conduct 
"cheek 3 " 

And, like that wicked barrister whom Cousin Harry quotes, 

May term his mixed chaHce " grog," his vestments " petti- 
coats : " 

But, whatsoe'er they do or say, I'll build a Christian's hope 
On incense and on altar-lights, on chasuble and cope. 
Let others prove, by precedent, the faith that they profess : 
" His can't be wrong " that's symbolised by such becoming 
dress. 



( 279 ) 



a ^otal FintiicatDr^ 

If Mr. Jones, Lycurgus B., 
Had one peculiar quality, 
'Twas his severe advocacy 
Of conjugal fidelity. 

His views of heaven were very free ; 
His views of life were painfully 
Ridiculous ; but fervently 
He dwelt on marriage sanctity. 

He frequently went on a spree ; 
But in his wildest revelry, 
On this especial subject he 
Betrayed no ambiguity. 

And though at times Lycurgus B. 
Did lay his hands not lovingly 
Upon his wife, the sanctity 
Of wedlock was his guaranty. 

But Mrs. Jones declined to see 
Affairs in the same light as he, 
And quietly got a decree 
Divorcing her from that L. B. 



28o A Moral Vindicator. 

And what did Jones, Lycurgus B., 
With his known idiosyncrasy ? 
He smiled, — a bitter smile to see, — 
And drew the weapon of Bowie. 

He did what Sickles did to Key, — 
What Cole on Hiscock wrought, did he ; 
In fact, on persons twenty-three 
He proved the marriage sanctity. 

The counsellor who took the fee, 
The witnesses and referee, 
The Judge who granted the decree, 
Died in that wholesale butchery. 

And then when Jones, Lycurgus B., 
Had wiped the weapon of Bowie, 
Twelve jurymen did instantly 
Acquit and set Lycurgus free. 



( 28l ) 



California a^atirigal 

(on the approach of spring.) 

Oh come, my beloved ! from thy winter abode, 
From thy home on the Yuba, thy ranch overflowed : 
For the waters have fallen, the winter has fled, 
And the river once more has returned to its bed. 

Oh, mark how the spring in its beauty is near ! 
How the fences and tules once more reappear ! 
How soft lies the mud on the banks of yon slough 
By the hole in the levee the waters broke through ! 

All nature, dear Chloris, is blooming to greet 
The glance of your eye and the tread of your feet ; 
For the trails are all open, the roads are all free, 
And the highwayman's whistle is heard on the lea. 

Again swings the lash on the high mountain trail, 
And the pipe of the packer is scenting the gale ; 
The oath and the jest ringing high o'er the plain. 
Where the smut is not always confined to the grain. 

Once more glares the sunlight on awning and roof, 
Once more the red clay's pulverised by the hoof. 



282 California Madrigal. 

Once more the dust powders the " outsides " with red, 
Once more at the station the whisky is spread. 

Then fly with me, love, ere the summer's begun, 
And the mercury mounts to one hundred and one ; 
Ere the grass now so green shall be withered and sear, 
In the spring that obtains but one month in the year. 



( 283 ) 



CBJat t^e (2Bnginei6f ^aiD* 

(opening of the pacific railroad.) 

What was it the Engines said, 
Pilots touching, — head to head 
Facing on the single track, 
Half a world behind each back ? 
This is what the Engines said, 
Unreported and unread. 

With a prefatory screech, 
In a florid Western speech, 
Said the Engine from the West : 
" I am from Sierra's crest ; 
And, if altitude's a test, 
Why, I reckon, it's confessed 
That I've done my level best" 

Said the Engine from the East : 
" They who work best talk the least 
S'pose you whistle down your brakes ; 
What you've done is no great shakes, — 
Pretty fair, — but let our meeting 
Be a different kind of greeting. 



284 What the Engines Said. 



Let these folks with champagne stuffing, 

Not their Engines, do Xho. puffing. 

Listen ! Where Atlantic beats 

Shores of snow and summer heats ; 

Where the Indian autumn skies 

Paint the woods with wampum dyes, — 

I have chased the flying sun, 

Seeing all he looked upon, 

Blessing all that he has blest, 

Nursing in my iron breast 

All his vivifying heat, 

All his clouds about my crest ; 

And before my flying feet 

Every shadow must retreat." 

Said the Western Engine, " Phew ! " 
And a long low whistle blew. 
" Come now, really that's the oddest 
Talk for one so very modest. 
You brag of your East ! You do ? 
Why, / bring the East to you / 
All the Orient, all Cathay, 
Find through me the shortest way ; 
And the sun you follow here 
E-ises in my hemisphere. 
Really, — if one must be rude, — 
Length, my friend, ain't longitude." 

Said the Union, " Don't reflect, or 
I'll run over some Director." 
Said the Central, " I'm Pacific ; 
But, when riled, I'm quite terrific. 
Yet to-day we shall not quarrel. 
Just to show these folks this moral, 



What the Engines Said. 285 

How two Engines — in their vision — 
Once have met without collision." 
That is what the Engines said, 
Unreported and unread ; 
Spoken slightly through the nose, 
With a whistle at the close. 



( 286 ) 



CJe !Leg;entii8f of tf)e Minu 

Beetling walls with ivy grown, 
Frowning heights of mossy stone ; 
Turret, with its flaunting flag 
Flung from battlemented crag ; 
Dungeon-keep and fortalice 
Looking down a precipice 
O'er the darkly glancing wave 
By the Lurline-haunted cave ; 
Robber haunt and maiden bower, 
Home of Love and Crime and Power, — 
That's the scenery, in fine, 
Of the Legends of the Rhine. 

One bold baron, double-dyed 
Bigamist and parricide, 
And, as most the stories run, 
Partner of the Evil One ; 
Injured innocence in white. 
Fair but idiotic quite, 
Wringing of her lily hands ; 
Valour fresh from Paynim lands, ' 
Abbot ruddy, hermit pale. 
Minstrel fraught with many a tale, — 
Are the actors that combine 
In the Legends of the Rhine. 



TTie Legends of tTie Rhine. 287 

Bell-mouthed flagons round a board ; 
Suits of armour, shield, and sword ; 
Kerchief with its bloody stain ; 
Ghosts of the untimely slain ; 
Thunder-clap and clanking chain ; 
Headsman's block and shining axe ; 
Thumb-screw, crucifixes, racks ; 
Midnight-tolling chapel bell. 
Heard across the gloomy fell, — 
These and other pleasant facts 
Are the properties that shine 
In the Legends of the Rhine. 

Maledictions, whispered vows 
Underneath the linden boughs ; 
Murder, bigamy, and theft ; 
Travellers of goods bereft ; 
Rapine, pillage, arson, spoil, — 
Everything but honest toil. 
Are the deeds that best define 
Every Legend of the Rhine. 

That Virtue always meets reward, 
But quicker when it wears a sword ; 
That Providence has special care 
Of gallant knight and lady fair ; 
That villains, as a thing of course, 
Are always haunted by remorse, — 
Is the moral, I opine. 
Of the Legends of the Rhine. 



( 288 ) 



©ongiei toitfjout ^enjefe, 

FOR THE PARLOUR AND PIANO. 

I. — THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL. 

Affection's charm no longer gilds 

The idol of the shrine ; 
But cold Oblivion seeks to fill 

Regret's ambrosial wine. 
Though Friendship's offering buried lies 

'Neath cold Aversions snow, 
Regard and Faith will ever bloom 

Perpetually below. 

I see thee whirl in marble halls, 

In Pleasure's giddy train ; 
Remorse is never on that brow, 

Nor Sorrow's mark of pain. 
Deceit has marked thee for her own ; 

Inconstancy the same ; 
And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam 

Athwart thy path of shame. 

II. — THE HOMELY PATHETIC. 

The dews are heavy on- my brow ; 

My breath comes hard and low ; 
Yet, mother dear, grant one request, 

Before your boy must go. 
Oh ! lift nie ere my spirit sinks. 

And ere my senses fail : 



Songs without Sense. 289 

Place me once more, O mother dear 1 
Astride the old fence-rail. 



The old fence-rail, the old fence-rail ! 

How oft these youthful legs, 
With Alice' and Ben Bolt's, were hung 

Across those wooden pegs. 
'Twas there the nauseating smoke , 

Of my first pipe arose : 

mother dear ! these agonies 
Are far less keen than those. 

1 know where lies the hazel dell, 
Where simple Nellie sleeps ; 

I know the cot of Nettie Moore, 
And where the willow weeps. 

I know the brook side and the mill, 
But all their pathos fails 

Beside the days when once I sat 
Astride the old fence-rails. 



III. — SWISS AIR. 

I'm a gay tra, la, la, 
With my fal, lal, la, la, 
And my bright — 
And my light — 

Tra, la, le. [Repeat] 

Then laugh, ha, ha, ha, 
And ring, ting, ling, ling, 
And sing fal, la, la. 

La, la, le. [Repeat.] 

VOL. I. X 



LITTLE POSTERITY. 



( 293 ) 



It was spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa 

and mamma moved in 
Next door, just as skating was over, and marbles about to 

begin, 
For the fence in our back-yard was broken, and I saw as I 

peeped through the slat. 
There were " Johnny Jump-ups " all around her, and I knew 

it was spring just by that. 

I never knew whether she saw me — for she didn't say 

nothing to me, 
But "Ma! here's a slat in the fence broke, and the boy 

that is next door can see." 
But the next day I climbed on our wood-shed, as you know 

mamma says I've a right. 
And she calls out, " Well, peekin is manners ! " and I 

answered her, " Sass is perlite ! " 

But I wasn't a bit mad, no, Papa, and to prove it, the very 

next day. 
When she ran past our fence in the morning I happened to 

get in her way, 



294 Master Johnny's Next-door Neighbour. 

For you know I am " chunked " and clumsy, as she says 

are all boys of my size, 
And she nearly upset me, she did, Pa, and laughed till tears 

came in her eyes. 



And then we were friends from that moment, for I knew 

that she told Kitty Sage, 
And she wasn't a girl that would flatter, " that she thought 

I was tall for my age." 
And I gave her four apples that evening, and took her to 

ride on my sled, 
And — "What am I telling you this for?" Why, Papa, my 

neighbour is dead! 



You don't hear one-half I am saying — I really do think 

it's too bad ! 
Why, you might have seen crape on her door-knob, and 

noticed to-day I've been sad. 
And they've got her a coffin of rosewood, and they say they 

have dressed her in white. 
And I've never once looked through the fence. Pa, since 

she died — at eleven last night. 



And Ma says it's decent and proper, as I was her neigh 

bour and friend, 
That I should go there to the funeral, and she thinks that 

you ought to attend ; 
But I am so clumsy and awkward, I know I shall be in the 

way. 
And suppose they should speak to me, Papa, I wouldn't 

know just what to say. 



Master J ohnnf s Next-door Neighbour. 295 

So I think I will get up quite early, I know I sleep late, but 

I know 
I'll be sure to wake up if our Bridget pulls the string that 

I'll tie to my toe ; 
And I'll crawl through the fence and I'll gather the " Johnny 

Jump-ups " as they grew 
Round her feet the first day that I saw her, and, Papa, I'll 

give them to you. 

For you're a big man, and you know. Pa, can come and go 

just where you choose, 
And you'll take the flowers into her, and surely they'll never 

refuse ; 
But, Papa, don't say they're from Johnny ; they won't 

understand, don't you see ? 
But just lay them down on her bosom, and, Papa, she'll 

know they're from Me. 



( 296 ) 



^i^0 CtJitft'gf ^oDej8ft EeQuei8!t 

My papa knows you, and he says you're a man who makes 

reading for books ; 
But I never read nothing you wrote, nor did papa — I know 

by his looks. 
So I guess you're Uke me when I talk, and I talk, and I 

talk all the day, 
And they only say : " Do stop that child ! ' or, " Nurse, take 

Miss Edith away." 

But papa said if I was good I could ask you — alone by 

myself — 
If you wouldn't write me a book like that little one up on 

the shelf. 
I don't mean the pictures, of course, for to make ^/lem 

you've got to be smart ; 
But the reading that runs all around them, you know — 

just the easiest part. 

You needn't mind what it's about, for no one will see it but 
me 

And Jane — that's my nurse — and John — he's the coach- 
man — ^just only us three. 

You're to write of a bad little girl, that was wicked and 
bold and all that ; 

And then you are to write, if you please, something good 
— very good — of a cat ! 



Mtss EditUs Modest Request. 297 

This cat she was virtuous and meek, and kind to her parents 

and mild. 
And careful and neat in her ways, though her mistress was 

such a bad child ; 
And hours she would sit and would gaze when her mistress 

— that's me — was so bad, 
And blink, just as if she would say : " O Edith ! you make 

my heart sad." 



And yet, you would scarcely believe it, that beautiful angelic 

cat 
Was blamed by the servants for stealing whatever, they said, 

she'd get at. 
And when John drank my milk — don't you tell me ! — I 

know just the way it was done — 
They said 'twas the cat — and she sitting and washing her 

face in the sun ! 



And then there was Dick, my canary. When I left its cage 
open one day. 

They all made believe that she ate it, though I know that 
the bird flew away. 

And why? Just because she was playing with a feather 
she found on the floor. 

As if cats couldn't play with a feather without people think- 
ing 'twas more. 



Why, once we were romping together, when I knocked down 

a vase from the shelf, 
That cat was as grieved and distressed as if she had done it 

herself ; 



298 Miss Edit lis Modest Request. 

And she walked away sadly and hid herself, and never came 

out until tea — 
So they say, for they sent me to bed, and she never came 

even to me. 



No matter whatever happened, it was laid at the door of 

that cat. 
Why, once when I tore my apron — she was wrapped in it, 

and I called "Rat !"— 
Why, they blamed that on her. I shall never — no, not to 

my dying day — 
Forget the pained look that she gave me when they slapped 

me and took me away; 



Of course, you know just what comes next, when a child is 

as lovely as that : 
She wasted quite slowly away — it was goodness was killing 

that cat. 
I know it was nothing she ate, for her taste was exceedingly 

nice ; 
But they said she stole Bobby's ice cream, and caught a bad 

cold from the ice. 



And you'll promise to make me a book like that little one 
up on the shelf, 

And you'll call her "Naomi," because it's a name that she 
just gave herself; 

For she'd scratch at my door in the morning, and when- 
ever I'd call out, " Who's there ? " 

She would answer, " Naomi ! Naomi ! " like a Christian I 
vow and declare. 



Miss EditKs Modest Request. 299 

And you'll put me and her in a book. And, mind, you're 

to say I was bad ; 
And I might have been badder than that but for the 

example I had. 
And you'll say that she was a Maltese, and — what's that 

you asked ? " Is she dead ? " 
Why, please, sir, there ain^t any cat / You're to make one 
" up out of your head ! 



( 300 ) 



cptjsfsf OBDit!) ma&eisf it pleasant for 
QBrotJer Juh 

" Crying ! " of course I am crying, and I guess you would 

be crying too 
If people were telling such stories as they tell about me, 

about you. 
Oh yes, you can laugh, if you want to, and smoke as you 

didn't care how, 
And get your brains softened like uncle's. — Dr. Jones says 

you're gettin' it now. 

Why don't you say " stop ! " to Miss Ilsey ? she cries 

twice as much as I do, 
And she's older and cries just from meanness — for a ribbon 

or anything new. 
Ma says it's her " sensitive nature." Oh my ! No. I shan't 

stop my talk ! 
And I don't want no apples nor candy, and I don't want 

to go take a walk ! 

I know why you're mad? Yes, I do, now! You think 

that Miss Ilsey likes you, 
And I've heard her repeatedly call you the bold-facest boy 

that she knew ; 
And she'd "like to know where you learnt manners." Oh 

yes ! Kick the table — that's right ! 
Spill the ink on my dress, and go then round teUing Ma 

that I look like a fright ! 



Miss Edith makes it Pleasant. 301 

What stories? Pretend you don't know that they're 

saying I broke off the match 
'Twixt old Money-grubber and Mary, by saying she called 

him " Crosspatch ! " 
When the only allusion I made him about sister Mary was 

she 
Cared more for his cash than his temper, and you know, 

Jack, you said that to me. 

And it's true ! But it's me, and I'm scolded, and Pa says if 

I keep on I might 
By and by get my name in the papers ! Who cares ? Why, 

'twas only last night 
I was reading how Pa and the sheriff were selling some lots, 

and it's plain 
If it's awful to be in the papers why Papa would go and 

complain. 

You think it ain't true about Ilsey ? Well, I guess I know 

girls — and I say 
There's nothing I see about Ilsey to show she likes you 



anyway 



I know what it means when a girl who has called her cat 

after one boy 
Goes and changes its name to another's. And she's done 

it — and I wish you joy ! 



( 302 ) 



^i^0 OBtiitl) maUesf another jFrientJ* 

Oh, you're the girl lives on the comer ? Come in — if you 

want to — come quick ! 
There's no one but me in the house and the cook — but she's 

only a stick. 
Don't try the front way but come over the fence — through 

the window — that's how. 
Don't mind the big dog — he won't bite you — just see him 

obey me ! there now ! 

What's your name, "Mary Ellen?" How funny, mine's 

Edith — it's nicer, you see, 
But yours does for you, for you're plainer, though mayDe 

you're gooder than me. 
For Jack says I'm sometimes a devil, but Jack, of all folks* 

needn't talk, 
For I don't call the seamstress an angel 'til Ma says the 

poor thing must " walk." 

Come in ! It's quite dark in the parlour, for sister will 

keep the blinds down, 
For you know her complexion is sallow like yours, but she 

isn't as brown ; 
Though Jack says that isn't the reason she likes to sit here 

with Jim Moore. 
Do you think that he meant that she kissed him ? Would 

you — if your lips wasn't sore ? 



Miss Edith makes another Friend. 303 

If you like, you can try our piano. 'Taint ours. A man 

left it here 
To rent by the month, although Ma says he hasn't been 

paid for a year. 
Sister plays — oh, such fine variations ! — why, I once heard 

a gentleman say 
That she didn't mind that for the music — in fact, it was just 

in her way ! 

Ain't I funny ? And yet it's the queerest of all, that what- 
ever I say. 

One-half of the folks die a-laughing, and the rest they all 
look t'other way. 

And some say, " That child ! " Do they ever say that to such 
people as you ? 

Though maybe you're naturally silly, and that makes your 
eyes so askew. 

Now stop — don't you dare to be crying ! Just as sure as 

you live, if you do, 
I'll call in my big dog to bite you, and I'll make my Papa 

kill you too ! 
And then where'll you be ? So play pretty. There's my 

doll, and a nice piece of cake. 
You don't want it — you think it is poison ! Then /'// eat 

it, dear, just for your sake ! 



( 304 ) 



£)n tl)e Eantsing* 

(an idyl of the balusters.) 

BOBBY, CRtat. 2,\' JOHNNY, (Ztat. \\. 

BOBBY. 

Do you know why they've put us in that back room, 
Up in the attic, close against the sky, 
And made believe our nursery's a cloak-room-? 
Do you know why ? 

JOHNNY. 

No more I don't, nor why that Sammy's mother 
What Ma thinks horrid, 'cause he bunged my eye, 
Eats an ice cream, down there, like any other — 
No more don't 1 1 

BOBBY. 

Do you know why Nurse says it isn't manners 
For you and me to ask folks twice for pie, 
And no one hits that man with two bananas ? 
Do you know why ? 

\ 

JOHNNY. 

No more I don't, nor why that girl, whose dress is 
Off of her shoulders, don't catch cold and die. 
When you and me gets croup when we undresses ! 
No more don't I ! 



On the Landing, 305 



BOBBY. 



Perhaps she ain't as good as you and I is, 
And God don't want her up there in the sky, 
And lets her live — to come in just when pie is- 
Perhaps that's why? 



JOHNNY. 



Do you know why that man that's got a cropped head 
Rubbed it just now as if he felt a fly ? 
Could it be, Bobby, something that I dropded? 
And is that why ? 



BOBBY. 

Good boys behaves, and so they don't get scolded, 
Nor drop hot milk on folks as they pass by. 

JOHNNY \_piously\. 

Marbles would bounce on Mr. Jones' bald head— 
But /shan't try! 

BOBBY. 

Do you know why Aunt Jane is always snarling 
At you and me because we tells a lie, 
And she don't slap that man that called her darling ? 
Do you know why ? 



JOHNNY. 

No more I don't, nor why that man with Mamma 
Just kissed her hand. 

VOL. I. u 



3o6 On the Landing. 



BOBBY. 

She hurt it — and that's why, 
He made it well, the very way that Mamma 
Does do to I. 

JOHNNY. 

I feel so sleepy. . . . Was that Papa kissed us ? 
What made him sigh, and look up to the sky? 

BOBBY. 

We wer'n't downstairs, and he and God had missed us, 
And that was why ! 



' DRAMA, 
TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR. 



( 309 ) 



Wxamntia Persona. 

"Sandy" .... Son of Alexander Morton, sen. j 

John Oakhurst . j His former partner, personal- [ ^^,^/^;,. 

•' I mg the prodigal son, bandy. J 

Col, Starbottle . Alexander Morton, sen.'s legal adviser. 

Old Morton . , . Alexander Morton, sen. 

Don Jos6 .... Father of Jovita Castro. 

Capper A detective. 

Concho Major-domo of Don Jose's rancho. 

York An old friend of Oakhurst, 

Pritchard , , . An Australian convict. 

S°^^^[ .... His pals. 
Silky ) ^ 

( Confidential clerk of Alexander Morton, 
Jackson . . . | -^^^^ ^^^ confederate of Pritchard. 
Hop Sing .... A Chinese laundryman. 

Servant of Alexander Morton, sen. — Policemen. 

!The schoolmistress of Red Gulch, in love 
with Sandy, and cousin of Alexander 
Morton, sen. 

Dona Jovita J In love with John Oakhurst, and daughter 

Castro . . . ( of Don Jose. 

iWife of Pritchard, illegally married to 
Sandy, and former "flame" of John 
Oakhurst. 

I Servant of Castro, and maid to Dona 
Manuela. . . . j j^^it^_ 



ACT I. 

THE rancho of THE BLESSED INNOCENTS, AND HOUSE OF DON 
J0S6 CASTRO. 

ACT II. 

RED GULCH. 

ACT III. 

THE BANKING-HOUSE OF MORTON &= SON, SAN FRANCISCO. 



ACT IV. 
THE VILLA OF ALEXANDER MORTON, SEN., SAN FRANCISCO. 



( 3IO ) 



COSTUMES. 

Alexander Morton ("Sandy"). — First dress: Mexican vaquero: 

black velvet trousers open from knee, over white trousers ; laced 

black velvet jacket, and broad white so7nbrero : large silver spurs. 

Second dress : miner's white duck jumper, and white duck trousers ; 

(sailor's) straw hat. Third dress : fashionable morning costume. 

Fourth dress : full evening dress. 
John Oakhurst. — First dress : riding-dress, black, elegantly fitting. 

Second and third dress : fashionable. Fourth dress : full evening 

dress. 
Col. Starbottle. — First dress : blue double-breasted frock, and 

white " strapped " trousers ; white hat. Second dress : same coat, 

blue trousers, and black broad-brimmed felt hat; cane, setnper ; 

ruffles, se7nper. Third dress : the same. Fourth dress : the same, 

with pumps. 
York. — Fashionable morning dress. 
Jackson. — Business suit. 

Concho. — First dress : vaquero^ s dress. Second dress : citizen's dress. 
Hop Sing. — Dress of Chinese coolie : dark-blue blouse, and dark-blue 

drawers gathered at ankles ; straw conical hat, and wooden sabots. 
Don Jos£. — First diess : serape, black, with gold embroidery. Second 

dress : fashionable black suit, with broad-brimmed black stiff 

sombrero. 
Old Morton. — First, second, third, and fourth dress : black, stiff, 

with white cravat. 
Capper. — Ordinary dress of period. 
Miss Mary. — First dress : tasteful calico morning dress. Second and 

third dress : lady's walking-costume — fashionable. Fourth dress : 

full dress. 
Dona Jovita. — First dress : handsome Spanish dress, with manta. 

Second dress : more elaborate, same quality. 
The Duchess. — First dress : elaborate but extravagant fashionable 

costume. Second dress : travelling dress. 
Manuela. — The saya y manta ; white waist, and white or black 

skirt, with flowers. 



( 311 ) 



CtDO ^zn of @)ant!g QBat, 

ACT I. 

Scene i. — Courtyard and Corridors of the Rancho, 

Manuel A [arranging supper-table in corridor^ l., soIii,s\ 
There ! Tortillas, chocolate, olives, and — the whisky of 
the Americans ! And supper's ready. But why Don Jos^ 
chooses to-night, of all nights, with this heretic fog lying 
over the Mission Hills like a wet scrape, to take his supper 
out here, the saints only know. Perhaps it's some distrust 
of his madcap daughter, the Doila Jovita ; perhaps to watch 
her — who knows ? And now to find Diego. Ah, here he 
comes. So ! The old story. He is getting Dona Jovita's 
horse ready for another madcap journey. Ah ! \Retires to 
table^ 

Enter cazitiously from corridor, L., Sandy Morton, carrying 
ladfs saddle and blanket; starts on obsei'ving Manuela, 
and hastily hides saddle and blanket iii recess. 

Sandy [_aside\ She's alone. I reckon the old man's at 
his siesta yet. Ef he'll only hang onto that snooze ten 
minutes longer, I'll manage to let that gal Jovita slip out 
to that yer fandango, and no questions asked. 

Manuela [calling Sandy]. Diego ! 

Sandy [aside, tvithout heeding her^ That's a sweet voice 
for a serenade. Round, full, high-shouldered, and calkilated 



312 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

to fetch a man every time. Only thar ain't, to my sartain 
knowledge, one o' them chaps within a mile of the rancho. 
\Laughs?^ 

Manuela. Diego ! 

Sandy \aside\. Oh, go on ! That's the style o' them 
Greasers. They'll stand rooted in their tracks, and yell 
for a chap without knowin' whether he's in sight or sound. 

Manuela ^approaching Sandy impatiently\ Diego ! 

Sandy [startmg, aside]. The devil ! Why, that's me she's 
after, [Laughs.'] I clean disremembered that when I kem 
yer I tole those chaps my name was James, — James Smith 
[laughs], and thet they might call me " Jim." And De-a- 
go's their lingo for Jim. [Aloud.'] Well, my beauty, De-a- 
go it is. Now, wot's up? 

Manuela. Eh ? no sabe ! 

Safidy. Wot's your little game? [Embraces her.] 

Manuela [aside, and recoiling coqtiettishly]. Mother of 
God ! He must be drunk again. These Americans have 
no time for love when they are sober. [Aloud and coquet- 
ttshly.] Let me go, Diego. Don Jos^ is coming. He has 
sent for you. He takes his supper to-night on the corridor. 
Listen, Diego. He must not see you thus. You have been 
drinking again. I will keep you from him. I will say you 
are not well. 

Sandy. Couldn't you, my darling, keep him from me ? 
Couldn't you make him think he was sick ? Couldn't you 
say he's exposin' his precious health by sittin' out thar to- 
night ; thet ther's chills and fever in every breath ? [Aside.] 
Ef the old Don plants himself in that chair, that gal's 
chances for goin' out to-night is gone up. 

Manuela. Never. He would suspect at once. Listen, 
Diego. If Don Jose does not know that his daughter steals 
away with you to meet some caballero, some lover, — you 
understand, Diego, — it is because he does not know, or 



Two Men of Sandy Bar, 313 

would not seem to know, what every one else in the rancho 
knows. Have a care, foolish Diego ! If Don Jose is old 
and blind, look you, friend, we are not. You understand ? 

Sandy [aside]. What the devil does she expect? — 
money? No! [Alozid.] Look yer, Manuela, you ain't 
goin' to blow on that young gal ! \Putting his arm around 
her waist] Allowin' that she hez a lover, thar ain't nothin' 
onnateral in thet, bein' a purty sort o' gal. Why, suppose 
somebody should see you and me together like this, and 
should just let on to the old man. 

Manuela. Hush ! \_Disengaging herself.] Hush ! He is 
coming. Let me go, Diego. It is Don Jose ! 

Enter Don Jos:^, who walks gravely to the table, and seats 
himself. Manuela retires to table. 

Sandy \aside]. I wonder if he saw us. I hope he did : 
it would shut that Manuela's mouth for a month of Sundays. 
[Lai/ghs.] God forgive me for it ! I've done a heap of 
things for that young gal Dona Jovita ; but this yer gittin' 
soft on the Greaser maid-servant to help out the misses, is a 
little more than Sandy Morton bargained fur. 

Don Jose [to Manuela]. You can retire. Diego will 
attend me. [Looks at Diego attentively.] 

[Exit Manuela. 

Sandy [aside]. Diego will attend him ! Why, blast his 
yeller skin, does he allow that Sandy Morton hired out as a 
purty waiter-gal ? Because I calkilated to feed his horses, 
it ain't no reason thet my dooty to animals don't stop thar. 
Pass his hash ! [Twns to follow Manuela, but stops.] 
Hello, Sandy ! wot are ye doin', eh ? You ain't going back 
on Miss Jovita, and jest spile that gal's chances to git out 
to-night, on'y to teach that God-forsaken old gov'ment mule 
manners ? No ! I'll humour the old man, and keep one 



314 l^'^o Men of Sandy Bar. 

eye out for the gal. \Comes to table, and leans familiarly 
over the back of Don Josh's chair^ 

Don Jose [aside]. He seems insulted and annoyed. His 
manner strengthens my worst suspicions. He has not 
expected this. [Aloud.] Chocolate, Diego. 

Sandy [leaning over table carelessly]. Yes, I reckon it's 
somewhar thar. 

Don Jose [aside]. He is unused to menial labour. If I 
should be right in my suspicions i if he really were Dona 
Jovita's secret lover ! This gallantry with the servants only 
a deceit ! Bueno ! I will watch him. [Aloud.] Chocolate, 
Diego ! 

Sandy [aside]. I wonder if the old fool reckons I'll pour 
it out. Well, seein's he's the oldest. [Fours chocolate 
awkwardly, and spills it on the table and Don Jos^.] 

Don Jose [aside]. He is embarrassed. I am right. 
[Aloud.] Diego ! 

Sajidy [leafiing confidentially over Don Josi's chair]. 
Well, old man ? 

Don Jose. Three months ago my daughter the Doiia 
Jovita picked you up, a wandering vagabond, in the streets 
of the Mission. [Aside.] He does not seem ashamed. 
[Aloud.] She — she — ahem ! The aguardiente, Diego. 

Sandy [aside]. That means the whisky. It's wonderful 
how quick a man learns Spanish. [Passes the bottle, fills 
Don Jose's glass, attd then his own. Don Jos:^ recoils in 
astonishment. I looks toward ye, ole man. [Tosses off 
liquor.] 

Don Jose [aside]. This familiarity ! He is a gentleman. 
Bueno! [Aloud.] She was thrown from her horse; her 
skirt caught in the stirrup ; she was dragged ; you saved 
her life. You 

Sandy [interrupting, confidentially drawing a chair to the 
table, and seating himself]. Look yer ! I'll tell you all 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 315 

about it. It wasn't that gal's fault, ole man. The hoss 
shied at me, lying drunk in a ditch, you see; the hoss 
backed, the girth broke ; it warn't in human natur for her 
to keep her seat, and that gal rides like an angel ; but the 
mustang throwed her. Well, I sorter got in the way o' thet 
hoss, and it stopped. Hevin' bin the cause o' the hoss 
shyin', for I reckon I didn't look much like an angel lyin' in 
that ditch, it was about the only squar thing for me to waltz 
in and help the gal. Thar, thet's about the way the thing 
pints. Now, don't you go and hold that agin her ! 

Don Jose. Well, well ! She was grateful. She has a 
strange fondness for you Americans ; and at her solicitation 
I gave you — you, an unknown vagrant — employment here 
as groom. You comprehend, Diego. I, Don Josd Castro, 
proprietor of this rancho, with an hundred idle vaqueros on 
my hands, — I made a place for you. 

Sandy \_mediiatively'\. Umph. 

Don Jose. You said you would reform. How have 
you kept your word ? You were drunk last Wednesday. 

Sandy. Thet's so. 

Don JosL And again last Saturday. 

Sandy [s/owly]. Look yer, ole man, don't ye be too 
hard on me : that was the same old drunk. 

Don Jos'e. I am in no mood for trifling. Hark ye, 
friend Diego. You have seen, perhaps, — who has not ? — 
that I am a fond, an indulgent father. But even my con- 
sideration for my daughter's strange tastes and follies has 
its limit. Your conduct is a disgrace to the rancho. You 
must go. 

Sandy [meditatively]. Well, I reckon, perhaps I'd better. 

Don Jose [aside]. His coolness is suspicious. Can it be 
that he expects the girl will follow him ? Mother of God ! 
perhaps it has been already planned between them. Good ! 
Thank Heaven I can end it here. [Aloud.] Diego. 



3 1 6 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

Sandy. Old man. 

JDo7i Jose. For my daughter's sake, you understand, — for 
her sake, — I am willing to try you once more. Hark ye ! 
My daughter is young, foolish, and romantic. I have reason 
to believe, from her conduct lately, that she has contracted 
an intimacy with some Americano, and that in her ignorance, 
her foolishness, she has allowed that man to believe that he 
might aspire to her hand. Good ! Now listen to me. 
You shall stay in her service. You shall find out, — you are 
in her confidence, — you shall find out this American, this 
adventurer, this lover if you please, of the Dona Jovita my 
daughter ; and you will tell him this, — you will tell him that 
a union with him is impossible, forbidden ; that the houi 
she attempts it, without my consent, she is penniless ; that 
this estate, this rancho, passes into the hands of the Holy 
Church, where even your laws cannot reach it. 

Sandy \lea?nng familiarly over the table\. But suppose 
that he sees that little bluff, and calls ye. 

Don JosL I do not comprehend you \cQldly\ 

Sandy. Suppose he loves that gal, and will take her 
as she stands, without a cent, or hide or hair of yer old 
cattle. 

Don Jos'e \scornfully\ Suppose — a miracle ! Hark ye, 
Diego ! It is now five years since I have known your 
countrymen, these smart Americanos. 1 have yet to know 
when love, sentiment, friendship, was worth any more than 
a money value in your market. 

Sandy [truculently and drunkenly\ You hev, hev ye ? 
Well, look yar, ole man. Suppose I refuse. Suppose I'd 
rather go than act as a spy on that young gal your darter ! 
Suppose that — hie — allowin' she's my friend, I'd rather 
starve in the gutters of the Mission than stand between her 
and the man she fancies. Hey ? Suppose I would — damn 
me ! Suppose I'd see you and your derned old rancho in 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 317 

— t'other place — hie — damn me. You hear me, ole man ! 
That's the kind o' man I am — damn me. 

Don Jose [aside, rising contemptuously]. It is as I suspected. 
Traitor. Ingrate ! Satisfied that his scheme has failed, he 
is ready to abandon her. And this — this is the man for 
whom she has been ready to sacrifice everything, — her 
home, her father ! [Aloud, coldly]. Be it so, Diego : you 
shall go. 

Sandy [soberly and seriously, after a pause]. Well, I 
reckon I had better. [Rising?^ I've a few duds, old man, 
to put up. It won't take me long. [Goes to l., aiid patises.] 

Don Jose [aside]. Ah ! he hesitates ! He is changing his 
mind. [Sandy returns slowly to table, pours out a glass of 
liquor, nods to Don Josi, and drinks.] I look towards ye, 
ole man. Adios ! [Exit Sandy. 

Don Jose. His coolness is perfect. If these Americans 
are cayotes in their advances, they are lions in retreat ! 
Bueno I I begin to respect him. But it will be just as well 
to set Concho to track him to the Mission ; and I will see 
that he leaves the rancho alone. [Exit Jose. 

Enter hurriedly Jovita Castro, in riding habit, with 
whip. 

So ! Chiquita not yet saddled, and that spy Concho 
haunting the plains for the last half-hour. What an air of 
mystery ! ' Something awful, something deliciously dread- 
ful, has happened ! Either my amiable drunkard has 
forgotten to despatch Concho on his usual fool's errand, or 
he is himself lying helpless in some ditch. Was there ever 
a girl so persecuted ? With a father wrapped in mystery, a 
lover nameless and shrouded in the obscurity of some 
Olympian height, and her only confidant and messenger a 
Bacchus instead of a Mercury ! Heigh ho And in an- 



3 1 8 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

other hour Don Juan — he told me I might call him John — 
will be waiting for me outside the convent wall ! What if 
Diego fails me? To go there alone would be madness'! 
Who else would be as charmingly unconscious and inatten- 
tive as this American vagabond ! \_Goes io l.] Ah, my 
saddle and blanket hidden ! He has been interrupted ! 
Some one has been watching. This freak of my father's 
means something. And to-night, of all nights, the night 
that Oakhurst was to disclose himself, and tell me all ! 
What is to be done ? Hark ! [Diego, witJiouf, singi!ig.'\ 

" Oh, here's your aguardiente. 
Drink it down ! " 

Jovita. It is Diego ; and. Mother of God ! drunk again ! 
Enter Sandy, carrying pack, intoxicated ; staggers to centre^ 
and, observing Jovita, takes off his hat respectfully. 

Jovita [shaking him by the shoulders passionately']. Diego ! 
How dare you ! And at such a time ! 

Sandy [iaith drunken solemnity]. Miss Jovita, did ye ever 
know me to be drunk afore at such a time ? 

Jovita. No. 

SaJidy. Zactly so. It's abnormal. And it means — the 
game's up. 

Jovita. I do not understand. For the love of God, 
Diego, be plain ! 

Sandy \solemnly and drunkenly]. When I say your game's 
up, I mean the old man knows it all. You're blowed upon. 
Hearken, miss ! [seriously and soberly]. Your father knows 
all that I know ; but, as it wasn't my business to interfere 
with, I hev sorter helped along. He knows that you meet 
a stranger, an American, in these rides with me. 

Jovita [passionately]. Ingrate ! You have not dared to tell 
him ! [Seizing him by the collar, and threatenijig him with 
the horsewhip^ 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 3 1 9 

Sandy [rising with half -drunken, half-sober solemnity\. 
One minit, miss ! one minit ! Don't ye ! don't ye do that ! 
Ef ye forget (and I don't blame ye for it), ef ye forget that 
I'm a man, don't ye, don't ye forget that you're a woman ! 
Sit ye down, sit ye down, so ! Now, ef ye'U kindly re- 
member, miss, I never saw this yer man, yer lover. Ef yell 
recollect, miss, whenever you met him, I allers hung back 
and waited round in the mission or in the fields beyond for 
ye, and allowed ye to hev yer own way, it bein' no business 
o' mine. Thar isn't a man on the ranch, who, ef he'd had a 
mind to watch ye, wouldn't hev known more about yer lover 
than I do. 

Jovita [aside]. He speaks truly. He always kept in the 
background. Even Don Juan never knew that I had an 
attendant until I told him. [Alotid.] I made a mistake, 
Diego. I was hasty. What am I to do ? He is waiting 
for me even now. 

Sandy. Well [with drunken gravity], ef ye can't go to 
him, I reckon it's the squar thing for him to come to ye. 

Jovita. Recollect yourself, Diego. Be a man ! 

Sandy. Thash jus war I say. Let him be a man, and 
come to ye here. Let him ride up to this ranch like a man, 
and call out to yer father that he'll take ye jist as ye are, 
without the land. And if the old man allows, rather than 
hev ye marry that stranger, he'll give this yer place to the 
Church, why, let him do it, and be damned. 

fovita [7'ecoiling, aside]. So ! That is their plan. Don 
Jose has worked on the fears or the cupidity of this 
drunken ingrate. 

Sandy [with drunken suhnissioii]. Ye was speaking to me, 
miss. Ef ye'U take my advice, — a drunken man's advice, 
miss, — ye'll say to that lover of yours, ef he's afeard to come 
for ye here, to take ye as ye stand, he ain't no man for ye. 
And, ontil he does, ye'll do as the old man says. Fur ef 



320 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

I do say it, miss, — and thar ain't no love lost between us, — 
he's a good father to ye. It ain't every day that a gal kin 
afford to swap a father like that, as she does know, fur the 
husband that she don't ! He's a proud old fool, miss ; but 
to ye, to ye, he's clar grit all through. 

Jovita \_passionately, aside]. Tricked, fooled, like a child ! 
and through the means of this treacherous, drunken tool. 
\Stamping her foot] Ah! we shall see! You are wise, 
you are wise, Don Jose ; but your daughter is not a 
novice, nor a helpless creature of the Holy Church. 
\Passionately.~\ I'll — I'll become a Protestant to-morrow ! 

Sandy \tmheedmg her passio?t, and becoming more earnest 
and self-possessed]. Ef ye hed a father, miss, ez instead o' 
harkinin' to your slightest wish, and surroundin' ye with 
luxury, hed made your infancy a struggle for life among 
- strangers, and your childhood a disgrace and a temptation ; 
ef he had left ye with no company but want, with no com- 
panions but guilt, with no mother but suffering ; ef he had 
made your home, this home, so unhappy, so vile, so terrible, 
so awful, that the crowded streets and gutters of a great city 
was something to fly to for relief; ef he had made his 
presence, his very name, — your name, miss, allowin' it was 
your father, — ef he had made that presence so hateful, that 
name so infamous, that exile, that flyin' to furrin' parts, that 
wanderin' among strange folks ez didn't know ye, was the 
only way to make life endurable ; and ef he'd given ye, — I 
mean this good old man Don Jose, miss, — ef he'd given ye as 
part of yer heritage a taint, a weakness in yer very blood, a 
fondness for a poison, a poison that soothed ye like a vam- 
pire bat and sucked yer life-blood [seizing her arm] ez it 
soothed ye ; ef this curse that hung over ye dragged ye 
down day by day, till hating him, loathing him, ye saw yer- 
self day by day becoming more and more like him, till ye 
knew that his fate was yours, and yours his, — why then, 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 321 

Miss Jovita \rising with mi hysterical, drunken laugJi\, why 
then, I'd run away with ye myself, — I would, damn me ! 

Jovita \uiho has been withdrawing from him scornfully]. 
Well acted, Diego. Don Jose should have seen his pupil. 
Trust me, my father will reward you. [Aside.] And yet 
there were tears in his drunken eyes. Bah ! it is the liquor ; 
he is no longer sane. And, either hypocrite or imbecile, 
he is to be trusted no longer. But where and why is he 
going? [Aloud.] You are leaving us, Diego. 

Sandy [quietly]. Well, the old man and me don't get on 
together, 

Jovita [scornfully]. Bueno ! I see. Then you abandon 
me ? 

Sa?tdy [quickly] To the old man, miss, — not the young 
one. [ Walks to the table a fid begins to pour out liquor.] 

Jovita [angrily]. You would not dare to talk to me thus 
if John Oakhurst — ah ! [ Checking herself] 

Sandy [drops glass on table, hurries to centre, and seizes 
Dona Jovita]. Eh ! Wot ? Wot name did you say ? [Looks 
at her amazed and beivildered^ 

Jovita [terrified, aside]. Mother of God ! what have I 
done ? Broken my sacred pledge to keep his name secret. 
No ! no ! Diego did not hear me ! Surely this wretched 
drunkard does not know him. [Aloud^^ Nothing. I said 
nothing : I mentioned no name. 

Sandy [still amazed, frightened, and bewildered, passi?ig his 
hand over his forehead slowly]. Ye mentioned no name ? 
Surely I am wild, crazed. Tell me, miss — ye didn't, — I 
know ye didn't, but I thought it sounded like it — ye didn't 
mention the name of — of — of — John Oakhurst ? 

Jovita [hurriedly]. No, of course not. You terrify me, 
Diego. You are wild. 

Sandy [dropping her hand with a sigh of relief]. No, 
no ! In course ye didn't. I was wild, miss, wild ; this 

VOL, I. X 



322 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

drink has confused me 'yer. \Pointing to his head'\ There 
are times when I hear that name, miss, — times when I see 
his face. \Sadly^ But is when I've took too much — 
too much. I'll drink no more — no more ! — to-night — to- 
night ! \props his head slowly in his handsP\ 

Jovita \looking at Diego, aside\. Really I'm feeling 
very uncomfortable. I'd like to ask a question of this 
maniac. But nonsense ! Don Juan gave me to understand 
Oakhurst wasn't his real name ; that is, he intimated 
there was something dreadful and mysterious about it that 
mustn't be told, — something that would frighten people. 
Holy Virgi?i ! it has ! Why, this reckless vagabond here 
is pale and agitated. Don Juan shall explain this mystery 
to-night. But then, how shall I see him ? Ah ! I have it. 
The night of the last festa, when I could not leave the 
rancho, he begged me to show a light from the flat roof of 
the upper corridor, that he might know I was thinking of him, 
— dear fellow ! He will linger to-night at the Mission ; he 
will see the light ; he will know that I have not forgotten. 
He will approach the rancho ; I shall manage to slip away 
at midnight to the ruined Mission. I shall — ah ! it is my 
father ! Holy Virgin, befriend me now with self-possession. 
\Stands quietly at i,., looking toward Sandy, who stih 
remains buried in thought^ as — 

Enter Don Jos^ ; regards his dat'.ghter and Diego with 
a sarcastic smile. 

Do?i Jose [aside']. Bueiio ! It is as I expected, — an 
explanation, an explosion, a lovers' quarrel, an end to 
romance. From his looks I should say she has been teach- 
ing the adventurer a lesson. Good ! I could embrace her. 
\Crosses to Sandy — aloud.'] You still here ! 

Sandy \7'ising with a start]. Yes ! I — a — I was only 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 323 

taking leave of Miss Jovita that hez bin kind to me. She's 
a good gal, oie man, and won't be any the worse when I'm 
gone. — Good-by, Miss Jovita [extending his hand\ I wish 
ye luck. 

Jovita \coldly\. Adios, friend Diego. [Aside, hurriedly. ^ 
You will not expose my secret ? 

Sandy [aside\. It ain't in me, miss. [To Don Jose, 
going.'l Adios, ole man. [Sho2ildering his packl\ 

Don Jose. Adios, friend Diego. [Formally ?\ May good 
luck attend you ! [Aside.'\ You understand, on your word 
as — as — as — a gentleman / — you have no further communi- 
cation with this rancho, or aught that it contains. 

Sandy [gravely]. I hear ye, ole man. Adios. [Goes to 
gatetvay, but pauses at table, and begins to Jill a glass of 
aguardiente.] 

Don Jose [aside, looking at his daughte?']. I could embrace 
her now. She is truly a Castro. [Aloud to Jovita.] Hark 
ye, little one ! I have news that will please you, and — who 
knows ? perhaps break up the monotony of the dull life of 
the rancho. To-night come to me two famous caballeros 
Americanos, you understand : they will be here soon, even 
now. Retire, and make ready to receive them. [Exit 
Jovita.] 

Don Jose [aside, looking at Sandy]. He lingers. I shall 
not be satisfied until Concho has seen him safely beyond 
the Mission wall. 

Enter Concho. 

Co7icho. Two caballeros have dismounted in the corral, 
and seek the honour of -Don Jose's presence. 

Don Jose. Buetio ! [Aside.] Follow that fellow beyond 
the Mission. [Aloud] Admit the strangers. Did they 
give their names ? 



324 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

Concho. They did, Don Jose, — Col. Culpepper Star- 
bottle and the Don Alexandro Morton. 

Sandy \dropping glass of aguardiente, and staggering 
stupidly to the centre, confronting Don Jose and Concho, 
still holding bottle']. Eh ! Wot ? Wot name did you say ? 
[Looks stupidly and amazedly at Concho and Don Jos]^, 
and then slowly passes his hand over his forehead. Then 
slowly and apologetically?^ I axes your pardon, Don Jose, 
and yours, sir \to Concho], but I thought ye called me. 
No ! — that ez — I mean — I mean — I'm a little off color here 
\_pointing to his head]. I don't follow suit— I — eh — eh ! 
Oh ! — ye'll pardon me, sir, but thar's names — perhaps yer 
darter will remember that I was took a bit ago on a name 
— thar's names sortir hangin' round me 'yer \_pointing to his 
head], that I thinks I hear — but bein' drunk — I hopes ye'll 
excoos me. Adios. \_Staggers to gateway, Concho follow- 
ing.] 

Concho \aside]. There is something more in this than 
Don Jose would have known. I'll watch Diego, and keep 
an eye on Miss Jovita too. 

[Exit, following Sandy, who, in exit, jostles against Col. 
Starbottle entering, who stops and leans exhaustedly at 
the wall to get his breath ; followi7ig him closely, and obli- 
vious of Sandy Morton, Alexander Morton, sen. 
Enter Col. Starbottle and Alexander Morton, sen. 

Scene 2. — The Same. 

Col. Starbottle \_entering, to Don Jose]. Overlooking the 
insult of — er — inebriated individual, whose menial position 
in this — er — er — household precludes a demand for per- 
sonal satisfaction, sir, I believe I have the honour of address- 
ing Don Josd Castro. Very good, sir. Permit me, sir, to 
introduce myself as Col. Culpepper Starbottle — demn me i 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 325 

the legal adviser of Mr. Alexander Morton, sen., and I may 
add, sir, the friend of that gentleman, and as such, sir — er 
— er — personally — personally responsible. 

Alexander Morton \_puritanicaiiy and lugicbriously\. As 
a God-fearing and forgiving Christian, Mr. Castro, I trust 
you will overlook the habitual profanity of the erring but 
well-meaning man, who, by the necessities of my situation, 
accompanies me. I am the person — a helpless sinner — 
mentioned in the letters which I believe have preceded 
me. As a professing member of the Cumberland Presby- 
terian Church, I have ventured, in the interest of works 
rather than faith, to overlook the plain doctrines of the 
Church in claiming sympathy of a superstitious Papist. 

Starbottle \interrupting, aside to Alexander Morton]. 
Ahem ! ahem ! \Aloudto Don Jose.] My friend's manner, 
sir, reminds me of — er — er- — Ram Bootgum Sing, first 
secretary of Turkish legation at Washington in '45 ; most 
remarkable man — demn me — most remarkable— and warm 
personal friend. Challenged Tod Robinson for putting him 
next to Hebrew banker at dinner, with remark — demn me 
— that they were both believers in the profit ! — he, he ! 
Amusing, perhaps; irreverent, certainly. Fought with 
cimeters. Second pass. Ram divided Tod in two pieces 
■ — fact, sir — just here \_pointing\ in — er — er^regions of moral 
emotions. Upper half called to me, — said to me warningly 
— last words — never forget it, — "Star," — always called me 
Star, — " Respect man's religious convictions." Legs dead; 
emotion confined to upper part of body — pathetic picture. 
Ged, sir, something to be remembered ! 

Don Jose \%viih grave Spanish courtesy]. You are wel- 
come, gentlemen, to the rancho of the Blessed Fisherman. 
Your letters, with their honourable report, are here. Believe 
me, sefiores, in your modesty you have forgotten to mention 



326 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

your strongest claim to the hospitality of my house, — the 
royal right of strangers. 

Mortofi. Angels before this have been entertained as 
strangers, says the Good Book ; and that, I take it, is your 
authority for this ceremoniousness, which else were but lip- 
service and Papist airs. But I am here in the performance 
of a duty, Mr. Castro, — the duty of a Christian father. I 
am seeking a prodigal son. I am seeking him in his wine- 
husks and among his harl — 

Siarbottle \i7iterrupiing\. A single moment. \To Don 
Josii;.] Permit me to — er — er — explain. As my friend Mr. 
Morton states, we are, in fact, at present engaged in — er — 
er — quest — er — pilgrimage that possibly to some, unless 
deterred by considerations of responsibility — personal 
responsibility — sir — Ged, sir, might be looked upon as 
visionary, enthusiastic, sentimental, fanatical. We are 
seeking a son, or, as my friend tersely and scripturally 
expresses it — er — er — prodigal son. I say scripturally, sir, 
and tersely, but not, you understand it, literally, not, I rnay 
add, sir, legally. Ged, sir, as a precedent, I admit we are 
wrong. To the best of my knowledge, sir, the — er — Prodigal 
Son sought his own father. To be frank, sir, — and Ged, 
sir, if Culpepper Starbottle has a fault, it is frankness, sir. 
As Nelse Buckthorne said to me in Nashville in '47, " You 
would infer, Col. Starbottle, that I equivocate." I repUed, 
" I do, sir ; and permit me to add that equivocation has all 
the guilt of a lie with cowardice superadded." The next 
morning at nine o'clock, Ged, sir, he gasped to me — he was 
lying on the ground, hole through his left lung just here 
\innstrating with Don Jose's coat\ — he gasped, "If you 
have a merit. Star, above others, it is frankness ! " his last 
words, sir, — demn me. ... To be frank, sir, years ago, in 
the wild exuberance of youth, the son of this gentleman left 
his — er — er — er — boyhood's home, owing to an innocent 



T'wo Men of Sandy Bar. 327 

but natural misunderstanding with the legal protector of his 
youth — 

Morton \iiiterruping gravely and demurely]. Driven from 
home by my own sinful and then unregenerate hand — 

StarboUle \_qicickly\ One moment, a simple moment. 
We will not Aveary you with — er — er — history, or the 
vagaries of youth. He — er — came to California in '49. A 
year ago, touched by — er — er — parental emotion and solici- 
tude, my friend resolved to seek him here. Believing that 
the — er — er — lawlessness of — er — er — untrammelled youth 
and boyish inexperience might have led him into some 
trifling indiscretion, we have sought him successively in 
hospitals, almshouses, reformatories, State's prisons, lunatic 
and inebriate asylums, and — er — er — even on the monu- 
mental inscriptions of the — er — er- — country churchyards. 
We have thus far, I grieve to say, although acquiring much 
and valuable information of a varied character and interest, 
as far as the direct matter of our search, — we have been, I 
think I may say, unsuccessful. Our search has been at- 
tended with the — er — disbursement of some capital under 
my — er — er — direction, which, though large, represents 
quite inadequately the — er — er — earnestness of our en- 
deavours. 

Enter Manuela. 

Manuela \to Don Jose]. The Dona Jovita is waiting to 
receive you. 

Donjos'e \to Morton]. You shall tell me further of your 
interesting pilgrimage hereafter. At present, my daughter 
awaits us to place this humble roof at your disposal. I am 
a widower, Don Alexandro, like yourself. When I say 
that, like you, I have an only child, and that I love her, 
you will understand how earnest is my sympathy. This 



32 8 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

way, gentlemen. [Leading to door in corridor^ and awaiting 
them.'] 

Starbottle [aside]. Umph ! An interview with lovely 
woman means — er — intoxication, but — er — er — no liquor. 
It's evident that the Don doesn't drink. Eh ! [Catc/ies 
sight of table in corridor, and bottle^ Oh, he does, but some 
absurd Spanish formality prevents his doing the polite thing 
before dinner. [Aloud to Don Jos£] One moment, sir, 
one moment. If you will — er — er — pardon the — er — seem- 
ing discourtesy, for which I am, I admit — er — personally 
responsible, I will for a few moments enjoy the — er — er— 
delicious air of the courtyard and the beauties of Nature as 
displayed in the — er — sunset. I v/ill — er — rejoin you and 
the — er — er — ladies a moment later. 

Don Jose. The house is your own, senor : do as you 
will. This way, Don Alexandro. 

[Exit, in door l., Don Jose and Morton, sen. 

Starbottle. "Do as you will." Well, I don't under- 
stand Spanish ceremony, but that's certainly good English. 
[Going to table.] Eh ! [Smelling decanter.] Robinson 
County whisky ! Umph ! I have observed that the spirit 
of American institutions, sir, are already penetrating the 
— er — er — superstitions of — er — foreign and effete civilisa- 
tions. [Pours out glass of whisky a?id drinks ; pours again, 
and observes Manuela watching him respectfully.] What the 
devil is that girl looking at ? Eh ! [Puts down glass.] 

Manuela [aside]. He is fierce and warlike. Mother of 
God ! But he is not so awful as that grey-haired caballero, 
who looks like a fasting St. Anthony. And he loves 
aguardiente: he will pity poor Diego the more. [Aloud.] 
Ahem ! Senor. [Courtesies coquettishly.] 

Col. Starbottle [aside]. Oh, I see. Ged ! not a bad- 
looking girl, — a trifle dark, but Southern, and — er — tropical. 
Ged, Star, Star, this won't do, sir ; no, sir. The filial 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 329 

affections of ^neas are not to be sacrificed through the 
blandishments of — er — Dodo — I mean a Dido. 

Manuela. O sefior, you are kind, you are good ! You 
are an Americano, one of a great nation. You will feel 
sympathy for a poor young man, — a mere muchaco, — one of 
your own race, who was a vaquero here, senor. He has 
been sent away from us here, disgraced, alone, hungry, 
perhaps penniless. [ Wipes her eyes,'\ 

Col. Starbottle. The devil ! Another prodigal, [Aloud.] 
My dear, the case you have just stated would appear to be 
the — er — er — normal condition of the — er — youth of 
America. But why was he discharged? \_Pouring out 
liquor i\ 

Manuela [demurely glancing at the Colonel]. He was drunk, 
serior. 

Starbottle [potently]. Drunkenness, my child, which is — 
er — weakness in the^-er — er — gentleman, in the subordinate 
is a crime. What — er — excites the social impulse and 
exhilarates the fancy of the — er — master of the house, in 
the performance of his duty, renders the servant unfit for his. 
Legally it is a breach of contract. I should give it as my 
opinion, — for which I am personally responsible, — that your 
friend Diego could not recover. Ged ! [aside.] I wonder 
if this scapegoat could be our black sheep ? 

Manuela. But that was not all, seiior. It was an excuse 
only. He was sent away for helping our young lady to a 
cavalier. He was discharged because he would not be a 
traitor to her. He was sent away because he was too good, 
too honourable — too — [Bursts out crying.] 

Starbottle [aside]. Oh, the devil ! this is no Sandy Morton. 
[Coming forward gravely.] I have never yet analysed the — 
er — er — character of the young gentleman I have the honour 
to assist in restoring to his family and society j but judging — 
er — calmly — er — dispassionately, from my knowledge of his 



330 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

own father — from what the old gentleman must have been 
in his unregenerate state, and knowing what he is now in 
his present reformed Christian condition, I should say calmly 
and deliberately that the son must be the most infernal and 
accomplished villain unhung. Ged, I have a thought, an 
inspiration. \To Manuela, tapping he}- under the chin.'] I 
see, my dear ; a lover, ha, ha ! Ah, you rogue ! Well, well, 
we will talk of this again. I will — er — er — interest myself 
in this Diego. \_Exit Manuela.] 

Starbottle \solus\. How would it do to get up a prodigal ? 
Umph ! Something must be done soon : the old man grows 
languid in his search. My position as a sinecure is— er — in 
peril. A prodigal ready-made ! But could I get a scoundrel 
bad enough to satisfy the old man? Ged, that's serious. 
Let me see : he admits that he is unable to recognise his 
own son in face, features, manner, or speech. Good ! If 
I could pick up some rascal whose — er — irregularities didn't 
quite fill the bill, and could say — Ged ! — that he was reform- 
ing. Reforming ! Ged, Star ! That very defect would 
show the hereditary taint, demn me ! I must think of this 
seriously. Ged, Star, the idea is — an inspiration of huma- 
nity and virtue. Who knows ? it might be the saving of the 
vagabond, — a crown of glory to the old man's age. Inspira- 
tion, did I say ? Ged, Star, it's a duty, — a sacred, solemn 
duty, for which you are responsible, — personally responsible. 
\Lights down half. Eiiter from corj'idor L., Morton, 
Don Jos6, the Dona Jovita, a7td Manuela. 

Doiia Jovita \_steppi71g fortvard with exaggerated Spanish 
courtesy]. A thousand graces await your Excellency, Com- 
mander Don — Don — 

Starbottle \bowing to the groimd with equal delight and exag- 
gerated courtesy]. Er — Coolpepero ! 

Dofia Jovita. Don Culpepero ! If we throw ourselves 
unasked at your Excellency's feet \courtesy\ if we appear 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 331 

unsought before the light of your Excellency's eyes 
\cotirtesy\ if we err in maidenly decorum in thus seeking 
unbidden your Excellency's presence \courtesy\ believe us, 
it is the fear of some greater, some graver indecorum in our 
conduct that has withdrawn your Excellency's person from 
us since you have graced our roof with your company. We 
know, Sehor Commander, how superior are the charms of 
the American ladies. It is in no spirit of rivalry with them, 
but to show — Mother of God ! — that we are not absolutely 
ugly, that we intrude upon your Excellency's solitude. ~ 
[Aside.] I shall need the old fool, and shall use him. 

Co/. Starbottle [who has been boiving and saluting with 
equal extravagance during this speech — aside']. Ged ! she is 
beautiful! [Aloud.'] Permit me — er — er — Dona Jovita, to 
correct — Ged, I must say it, correct erroneous statements. 
The man who should — er — utter in my presence remarks 
disparaging those — er — charms it is my privilege to behold, 
I should hold responsible, — Ged ! personally responsible. 
You — er — remind me of — er — incident, trifling perhaps, but 
pleasing — Charleston in '52 — a reception at John C. 
Calhoun's. A lady, one of the demnedest beautiful women 
you ever saw, said to me, "Star!" — she always called me 
Star, — " you've avoided me, you have. Star ! I fear you are 
no longer my friend." — "Your friend, madam," I said. 
"No, I've avoided you because I am your lover." Ged, 
Miss Jovita, a fact — demn me. Sensation. Husband 
heard garbled report. He was old friend, but jealous, rash, 
indiscreet. Fell at first fire — umph — January 5th. Lady 
— beautiful woman — never forgave — went into convent 
Sad affair. And all a mistake — demn me, — all a mistake, 
through perhaps extravagant gallantry and compliment. I 
lingered here, oblivious perhaps of — er — beauty, in the 
enjoyment of Nature. 

Dona Jovita. Is there enough for your Excellency to 



332 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

share with me, since it must be my rival ? See, the fog is 
clearing away : we shall have moonlight. [Don Jos^ Mid 
Morton seat themselves at table.'] Shall we not let these 
venerable caballeros enjoy their confidences and experiences 
together? [Aside.] Don Jose watches me like a fox, does 
not intend to lose sight of me. How shall I show the light 
three times from the courtyard roof? I have it ! [Takes 
Starbottle's arm.] It is too pleasant to withdraw. There 
is a view from the courtyard wall your Excellency should 
see. Will you accompany me ? The ascent is easy. 

Starhottle [bowlng[. I will ascend, although, permit me 
to say, Dona Jovita, it would be — er — impossible for me to 
be nearer — er — heaven, than — er — at present. 

Dona Jovita. Flatterer ! Come, you shall tell me about 
this sad lady who died. Ah ! Don Culpepero, let me hope 
all your experiences will not be so fatal to us ! [Exeunt 
Dona Jovita and Starbottle.] 

Morton [aside]. A froward daughter of Baal, and, if I 
mistake not, even now concocting mischief for this foolish, 
indulgent, stiff-necked father. [Aloud.] Your only daughter, 
I presume. 

Don Jose. My darling, Don Alexandro. Motherless 
from, her infancy. A little wild, and inclined to gaiety, but 
I hope not seeking for more than these walls afford. I 
have checked her but seldom, Don Alexandro, and then I 
did not let her see my hand on the rein that held her back. 
I do not ask her confidence always : I only want her to 
know that when the time comes it can be given to me with- 
out fear. 
, Morton. Umph ! 

Dofi Jose [leaning fonvard confide?itially]. To show that 
you have not intrusted your confidence regarding your 
wayward son — whom may the saints return to you ! — to 
unsympathetic or inexperienced ears, I will impart a secret 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 333 

A few weeks ago I detected an innocent intimacy between 
this foolish girl and a vagabond vaquero in my employ. 
You understand, it was on her part romantic, visionary : on 
his, calculating, shrewd, self-interested, for he expected to 
become my heir. I did not lock her up. I did not tax her 
with it. I humoured it. To-day I satisfied the lover that 
his investment was not profitable, that a marriage without 
my consent entailed the loss of the property, and then left 
them together. They parted in tears, think you, Don 
Alexandro? No, but mutually hating each other. The 
romance was over. An American would have opposed the 
girl, have driven her to secrecy, to an elopement perhaps. 
Eh? ' 

Morton \scornfully\. And . you believe that they have 
abandoned their plans ? 

Do7i Jose. I am sure — hush ! she is here ! 

Enter on roof of corridor Starbottle and JoviTA. 

Col. Starbottle. Really a superb landscape ! An admir- 
able view of the — er — fog — rolling over the Mission Hills, 
the plains below, and the — er — er — single figure of — er — 
motionless horseman — 

Dona Jovita [quickly]. Some belated vaquero. Do you 
smoke, Senor Commander? 
Starbottle. At times. 

Dona Jovita. With me. I will light a cigarette for you : 
it is the custom. 

[Col. Starbottle draws match from his pocket and 
is about to light, but is stopped by Dona Jovita. 
Doiia Jovita. Pardon, your Excellency, but we cannot 
endure your American matches. There is a taper in the 
passage. 

[Col. Starbottle brings taper. Dona Jovita turns 
to light cigarette, but manages to blow out candle. 



334 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

Dona Jovita. I must try your gallantry again. That is 
once I have failed. \Significantly?\ 

[Col. Starbottle relights candk, business, same results. 

Dona Jovita. I am stupid and nervous to-night. I have 
failed twice. [ With ej?tphasis.'\ 

[Col. Starbottle I'epeats business tmth candle. Dona 
Jovita lights cigarette, hands it to the Colonel. 

Doiia Jovita. Thrice, and I have succeeded. \Blows 
out candle?^ 

Col. Starbottle. A thousand thanks ! There is a — er — 
er — light on the plain. 

Doha Jovita [hastily]. It is the va^ueros returning. My 
father gives a festa to peons in honour of your arrival. 
There will be a dance. You have been patient, Sefior 
Commander ; you shall have my hand for a waltz. 



Enter vaqueros, their wives and daughters. A dance, during 
which the " sembi canca " is danced by Col. Starbottle and 
Dona Jovita. Business, during which the bell of Mission 
Church, faintly illuminated beyotid the wall, strikes twelve. 
Dancers withdraw hurriedly, leavijig alone Manuela, 
Dona Jovita, Col. Starbottle, Don Josie fl!«^ Concho. 
Co^cao formally hands keys to Don Jose. 

Donjosk [delivering keys to Morton with stately impres- 
sivejiess\ Take them, Don Alexandro Morton, and with 
them all that they unlock for bliss or bale. Take them, 
noble guest, and with them the homage of this family, — • 
to-night, Don Alexandro, your humble servants. Good- 
night, gentlemen. May a thousand angels attend you, O 
Don Alexandro and Don Culpepero ! 

Dona Jovita. Good-night, Don Alexandro. May your 
dreams to-night see all your wishes fulfilled ! Good-night, 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 335 

O Senor Commander. May she you dream of be as happj 

as you ! 

Mamiela and Concho [together']. Good-night, O senores 
and illustrious gentlemen ! May the Blessed Fisherman 
watch over you ! [Both parties retreat into opposite corridors^ 
ioiuing.'] 

Manuela. Concho. Morton. 

Don Jos^. Jovita. Starbottle. 

Scene 3. — The same. Stage darkened. Fog passing beyond 
wail outside, and occasionally obscuring moonlit landscape 
beyond. Enter Jovita softly from corridor L. Her face 
is partly hidden by Spanish mantilla. 

Jovita. All quiet at last ; and, thanks to much agtiardiente, 
my warlike admirer snores peacefully above. Yet I could 
swear I heard the old Puritan's door creak as I descended ! 
Pshaw! What matters? [Goes to gateway and tries gate.] 
Locked ! Carramba 1 I see it now. Under the pretext 
of reviving the old ceremony, Don Jose has locked the gates 
and placed me in the custody of his guests. Stay ! There 
is a door leading to the corral from the passage by Concho's 
room. Bueno / Don Jose shall see ! [Exit r.] 

Enter cautiously R. Old Morton. 

Old Morton. I was not mistaken ! It was the skirt of 
that Jezebel daughter that whisked past my door a moment 
ago, and her figure that flitted down that corridor. So ! 
The lover driven out of the house at four p.m., and at twelve 
o'clock at night the young lady trying the gate secretly. 
This may be Spanish resignation and filial submission, but 
it looks very like Yankee disobedience and forwardness. 
Perhaps it's well that the keys are in my pocket. This fond 



33^ Two Men of Sandy Bar, 

confiding Papist may find the heretic American father of 
some service. \Conceals himself behind pillar of corridor?^ 

[After a pause the head of John Oakhurst appears 
over the wall of corridor : he climbs up to roof of 
corridor, a?id descends very quietly and deliber- 
ately to stage. 

Oakhurst \dusting his clotliijtg with his handkerchief\ I 
never Icnew before why these Spaniards covered their adobe 
walls with whitewash. [Leans against pillar in shadow?)^ 

Re-cJiter Jo vita hastily. 

Tovita. All is lost ! The corral door is locked, the key is 
outside, and Concho is gone, — gone where? Madre di 
Dios ! to discover, perhaps to kill him. 

Oakhurst [approaching her\ No ! 

Jovita. Juan ! [e77ibracing him.'\ But how did you get 
here? This is madness ! 

Oakhurst. As you did not come to the Mission, I came 
to the rancho. I found the gate locked — by the way, is not 
that a novelty here ? — I climbed the wall. But you, Miss 
Castro, you are trembling ! Your little hands are cold ! 

Jovita [glancing a7-ound\. Nothing ! nothing ! But you 
are running a terrible risk. At any moment we may be dis- 
covered. 

Oakhurst. I understand you : it would be bad for the 
discoverer. Never fear, I will be patient. 

Jovita. But I feared that you might meet Concho. 

Oakhurst. Concho — Concho [meditatively']. Let me 
see, — tall, dark, long in the arm, weighs about one hundred 
and eighty, and active. 
Jovita. Yes, tell me ! You have met him? 

Oakhurst. Possibly, possibly ! Was he a friend of yours? 

Jovita. No ! 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 337 

Oakhurst. That's better. Are his pursuits here seden- 
tary or active ? 
Jovita. He is my father's major-domo. 
Oakhurst. I see : a sinecure. [Aside.] Well, if he has 
to lay up for a week or two, the rancho won't suffer. 
Jovita. Well ? 
Oakhurst. Well ! 

Jovita \_passioiiately\. There ! having scaled the wall, at 
the risk of being discovered — this is all you have to say ! 
{^Turning away.'] 

Oakhurst \guietly\. Perhaps, Jovita [taking her hand 
with grave earnestness], to a clandestine intimacy like ours 
there is but one end. It is not merely elopement, not 
merely marriage, it is exposure ! Sooner or later you and I 
must face the eyes we now shun. What matters if to-night 
or later ? 
Jovita [quickly]. I am ready. It was you who — 
Oakhurst It was I who first demanded secrecy ; but it 
was I who told you when we last met that I would tell you 
why to-night. 

Jovita. I am ready ; but hear me, JUan. Nothing can 
change my faith in you. 

Oakhurst [sadly]. You know not what you say. Listen, 
my child. I am a gambler. Not the man who lavishes 
his fortune at the gaming-table for excitement's sake ; not 
the fanatic who stakes his own earnings — perhaps the con- 
fided earnings of others — on a single coup. No, he is the 
man who loses, — whom the world deplores, pities, and 
forgives. I am the man who wins — whom the world hates 
and despises, 
- Jovita. I do not understand you, Juan. 

Oakhurst. So much the better, perhaps. But you must 
hear me. I make a profession — an occupation more ex- 
acting, more wearying, more laborious, than that of your 

VOL. I. Y 



^7,S Tzvo Men of Sandy Bar. 

meanest herdsman — of that which others make a dissipation 
of the senses. And yet, Jovita, there is not the meanest 
vaquero in this ranch, who, playing against me, winning or 
losing, is not held to be my superior. I have no friends — 
only confederates. Even the woman who dares to pity me 
must do it in secret. 

Jovita. But you will abandon this dreadful trade. As 
the son of the rich Don Jose, no one dare scorn you. My 
father will relent. I am his heiress. 

Oakhurst. No more, Jovita, no more. If I were the man 
who could purchase the world's respect through a woman's 
weakness for him, I should not be here to-night. I am not 
here to sue your father's daughter with hopes of forgiveness, 
promises of reformation. Reformation, in a man like me, 
means cowardice or self-interest. [Old Morton, becoming 
excited, leans slowly out from the shadow of the pillar, listen- 
ing intejttly.'] I am here to take, by force if necessary, a 
gambler's wife, — the woman who will share my fortunes, 
my disgrace, my losses ; who is willing to leave her old life 
of indulgence, of luxury, of respectability, for mine. You 
are frightened, little dove : compose yourself [^soothing her 
tenderly and sad/y] ; you are frightened at the cruel hawk 
who has chosen you for a mate. 

Old Morton \_aside\ God in heaven ! This is like him ! 
like me ! — like me before the blessed Lord lifted me into 
regeneration. If it should be ! \_Leans forward anxiously 
from pilla}-\. 

Oakhurst [aside]. Still silent ? Poor dove ! I can hear 
her foolish heart flutter against mine. Another moment 
decides our fate. Another moment : John Oakhurst and 
freedom, or Red Gulch and — she is moving. [To Jovita.] 
I am harsh, little one, and cold. Perhaps I have had much 
to make me so. But when [withfeeling\ I first met you ; when, 
lifting my eyes to the church-porch, I saw your beautiful 



Two Men of Sandy Bar, 339 

face ; when, in sheer recklessness and bravado, I raised my 
hat to you ; when you — you, Jovita — Ufted your brave eyes 
to mine, and there, there in the sanctuary, returned my 
salute, — the salutation of the gambler, the outcast, the 
reprobate, — then, then I swore that you should be mine, 
if I tore you from the sanctuary. Speak now, Jovita : 
if it was coquetry, speak now ; I forgive you : if it 
was sheer wantonness, speak now ; I shall spare you : but 
if— 

Jovita \tIiroiving herself in his arms\ Love, Juan ! I am 
yours, now and for ever. \Pause?^ But you have not told 
me all. I will go with you to-night— now. I leave behind 
me all, — my home, my father, my — S^pause^^ — my name. You 
have forgotten, Juan, you have not told me what I change 
that for : you have not told me yours. 

[Old Morton, in eager excitement, leans beyond, 
shadotv of pillar. 

Oakhurst [enibracijig her tenderly, with a S7nile\. If I 
have not told you who I am, it was because, darling, it was 
more important that you should know what I am. Now 
that you know that — why — \embarrassedly'\ — I have nothing 
more to tell. I did not wish you to repeat the name of 
Oakhurst, because — la.side^ — how the devil shall I tell her 
that Oakhurst was my real name after all, and that I only 
feared she might divulge it? — \^alotLd\ — because — because — 
[determinedly^ — I doubted your ability to keep a secret. My 
real name is — [looks tip, and sees Morton leaning beyond 
pillar'] — is a secret. [Pause, in which Oakhurst slowly re- 
covers his coolness?] It will be given to the good priest who 
to-night joins oar fate forever, Jovita, — forever, in spite of 
calumny, opposition, or spies ! — the padre whom we shall 
reach, if enough life remains in your pulse and mine to 
clasp these hands together. [After a pause.] Are you 
content ? 



340 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

Jovita. I am. 

Oakhiirst. Then there is not a moment to lose. Retire 
and prepare yourself for a jom-ney. I will wait here. 
Jovita. I am ready now. 

Oakhurst [looking toward pillar\ Pardon, my darling : 
there was a bracelet — a mere trifle — I once gave you. 
It is not on your wrist. I am a trifle superstitious, per- 
haps : it was my first gift. Bring it with you. I will wait. 
Go ! [Exit Jovita.] 

[Oakhurst watches her exit, lounges indifferently 
fozvaj^d gate ; when opposite pillar, stiddenly seizes 
Morton by the throat and drags him noiselessly 
to centre. 

Oakhurst \Jiurriedly\ One outcry, — a single word, — 
and it is your last. I care not who you may be ! — who I 
am, — you have heard enough to know, at least, that you 
are in the grip of a desperate man. [Keys fall from 
Morton's hand. Oakhurst seizes them?[ Silence ! on 
your life. 

Morton \struggling\. You would not dare ! I command 
you— 

Oakhurst [dragging him to gatezcay]. Out you must go. 

Morton. Stop, I command you. / never turned my 
father out of doors ! 

Oakhicrst [gazing at Morton]. It is an old man ! I 
release you. Do as you will, only remember that that 
girl is mine forever, that there is no power on earth will 
keep me from her. 

Morton. On conditions. 

Oakhurst. Who are you that make conditions ? You are 
not — her father ? 

Morton. No, but I am yours ! Alexander Morton, I 
charge you to hear me. 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 341 

Oakluirst \starting in astonishment, aside], Sandy Morton, 
my lost partner's father ! This is fate. 

Morton. You are astonished ; but I thought so. Ay, 
you will hear me now ! I am your father, Alexander Morton, 
who drove you, a helpless boy, into disgrace and misery. 
I know your shameless life : for twenty years it was mine, 
and worse, until, by the grace of God, I reformed, as you 
shall. I have stopped you in a disgraceful act. Your 
mother — God forgive me ! — left he7' house, for my arms, as 
wickedly, as wantonly, as shamelessly — 

Oakhurst. Stop, old man, stop ! Another word \seizing 
hi}n\ and I may forget your years. 

ATorton. But not your blood. No, Alexander Morton, 
I have come thousands of miles for one sacred purpose, — 
to save you ; and I shall, with God's will, do it now. Be it 
so, on one condition. You shall have this girl ; but lawfully, 
openly, with the sanction of Heaven and your parents. 

Oakhurst [aside]. I see a ray of hope. This is Sandy's 
father -. the cold, insensate brute who drove him into exile, 
the one bitter memory of his life. Sandy disappeared 
irreclaimable, or living alone, hating irrevocably the author 
of his misery ; why should not I — 

Morton [continuing]. On one condition. Hear me, 
Alexander Morton. If within a year, you, abandoning your 
evil practices, your wayward life, seek to reform beneath 
my roof, I will make this proud Spanish Don glad to 
accept you as the more than equal of his daughter. 

Oakhurst [aside]. It would be an easy deception. Sandy 
has given me the details of his early life. At least, before 
the imposition was discovered I shall be — [Aloud?^ I — I 
[Aside.] Perdition ! she is coming ! There is a light mov- 
ing in the upper chamber. Don Jose is awakened. [Aioz^d.] 
I — I — accept 



342 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

Morto7i. It is well. Take these keys, open yonder gate 
and fly ! \As Oakhurst hesitates?^ Obey me. I will 
meet your sweetheart and explain all. You will come 
here at daylight in the morning and claim admittance, not 
as a vagabond, a housebreaker, but as my son. You hesitate. 
Alexander Morton, I, your father, command you. Go ! 

[Oakhurst goes to the gate, opens it, as the sound of 
Diego's voice, singing in the fog, comes faintly in, 

O yer's your Sandy Morton, 

Drink him down ! 
O yer's your Sandy Morton, 

Drink him down ! 
O yer's your Sandy Morton, 
For he's drunk and goin' a-courtin,' 
O yer's your Sandy Morton, 

Drink him down ! 

[Oakhurst recoils against gate; Morton hesitates, as 
window in corridor opens and Don Jos:^ calls 
from upper corridor. 

Don Jose. Concho! [I'ause.] 'Tis that vagabond Diego, 
lost his way in the fog. Strange that Concho should have 
overlooked him. I will descend. 

Morton [to Oakhurst]. Do you hear ? 

[jExit Oakhurst through gateway. Morton closes 

gate and returns to centre.~ Enter Jovita 

hurriedly. 

Jovita. I have it here. Quick ! there is a hght in Don 

Jose's chamber ; my father is coming down. \Sees Morton 

and screams^ 

Morton [seizing her']. Hush, for your own sake, for his, 
control yourself. He is gone, but he will return. [To 
Jovita, still struggling^ Hush, I beg, Miss Jovita. I beg, 
I command you, my daughter, hush ! 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 343 

Jovita \whispering\. His voice has changed. What 
does this mean ? [Aloud.] Where has he gone ? and why- 
are jou here ? 

Morton [slowly ajid seriously]. He has left me here to 
answer the unanswered question you asked him. [Enter 
Don Jose and Col. Starbottle r, and l.] I am here to 
tell you that I am his father, and that he is Alexander 
Morton. 

TABLEAU. 

Curtain. 

END OF ACT L 



344 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 



ACT 11. 

Scene i. — Red Gulch. Caiion of river., and distant view of 
Sierras^ snow-ravined. Schoolhouse of logs in right middle 
distance. Ledge of rocks in centre. Onstepsofschoolhoti.se 
two large bunches of flowers. Enter Starbottle, slowly 
climbijig rocks 'L.,panti7ig and exhausted. Seats himself on 
rock., foreground, and wipes his face with his pockelhandker- 
chief 

Starbottle. This is evidently the — er — locality. Here 
are the — er — groves of Academus — the heights of — er — Ida ! 
I should say that the unwillingness which the — er — divine 
Shakespeare points out in the — er — " whining schoolboy " is 
intensified in — er — climbing this height, and the — er — ■ 
alacrity of his departure must be in exact ratio to his gravi- 
tation. Good idea. Ged ! say it to schoolma'am. Wonder 
what she's like ? Humph ! the usual thin, weazened, hatchet- 
faced Yankee spinster, with an indecent familiarity with 
Webster's Dictionary ! And this is the woman, Star, you're 
expected to discover, and bring back to affluence and plenty. 
This is the new fanaticism of Mr. Alexander Morton, sen. 
Ged ! not satisfied with dragging his prodigal son out of 
merited obscurity, this miserable old lunatic commissions 
vie to hunt up another of his abused relatives ; some forty- 
fifth cousin, whose mother he had frozen, beaten, or starved 
to death. And all this to please his prodigal ! Ged ! if that 
prodigal hadn't presented himself that morning, I'd have 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 345 

picked up — er — some — er — reduced gentleman — Ged ! that 
knew how to spend the old man's money to better advan- 
tage. \_Musing?^ If this schoolmistress were barely good- 
looking, Star, — and she's sure to have fifty thousand from 
the old man — Ged! you might get even with Alexander, sen. 
for betrothing his prodigal to Dona Jovita, in spite of the 
— er — evident preference that the girl showed for you. 
Capital idea ! If she's not positively hideous I'll do it ! Ged! 
I'll reconnoitre first ! \Alnsing^ I could stand one eye ; 
yes — er — single eye would not be positively objectionable in 
the — er — present experiments of science toward the — er — 
the substitution of glass. Red hair. Star, is — er — Venetian 
— the beauty of Giorgione. \Goes up to schoolhouse window, 
and looks in.] Too early ! Seven empty benches ; seven 
desks splashed with ink. The — er — rostrum of the awful 
Minerva empty, but — er — adorned with flowers, nosegays — 
demn me ! And here, here on the — er — very threshold 
[looking down], floral tributes. The— er — conceit of these 
New England schoolma'ams, and their — er — evident Jesuiti- . 
cal influence over the young, is fraught, sir, fraught with — 
er — darkly political significance. Eh, Ged ! there's a carica- 
ture on the blackboard. [Latig/iing.] Ha, ha ! Absurd 
chalk outline of ridiculous fat person. Evidently the school- 
ma'am's admirer. Ged ! immensely funny ! Ah ! boys will 
be boys. Like you. Star, just like you, — always up to tricks 
like that. A sentence scrawled below the figure seems to be 
— er — explanation. Hem ! \_Takes oid eyeglass.] Let's see 
\readi7tg.] " This is old " — old — er — old — demme, sir ! 
— " Starbottle ! " This is infamous. I haven't been forty- 
eight hours in the place, and to my certain knowledge 
haven't spoken to a child. Ged ! sir, it's the — er — posting 
of a libel ! The woman, the — er — female, who permits this 
kind of thing should be made responsible — er — personally 



34^ Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

responsible. Eh, hush ! What have we here ? {Retires to 
ledge of rock.'] 

Enter Miss Mary, l., reading letter. 

Miss Mary. Strange ! Is it all a dream ? No ! here 
are the familiar rocks, the distant snow-peaks, the school- 
house, the spring below. An hour ago I was the poor 
schoolmistress of Red Gulch, with no ambition nor hope 
beyond this mountain wall ; and now — oh, it must be a 
dream ! But here is the letter. Certainly this is no delu- 
sion : it is too plain, formal, business-like. [Reads.] 

My dear Cousin, — I address the only surviving child 
of my cousin Mary and her husband John Morris, both 
deceased. It is my duty as a Christian relative to provide 
you with a home, — to share with you that wealth and those 
blessings that a kind Providence has vouchsafed me. I am 
aware that my conduct to your father and mother, while in 
my sinful and unregenerate state, is no warrant for my 
present promise ; but my legal adviser. Col. Starbottle, who 
is empowered to treat with you, will assure you of the 
sincerity of my intention, and my legal ability to perform it. 
He will conduct you to my house ; you will share its roof 
with me and my prodigal son Alexander, now by the grace 
of God restored, and mindful of the error of his ways. I 
enclose a draft for one thousand dollars : if you require 
more, draw upon me for the same. 
Your cousin, 

Alexander Morton, Sen. 

My mother's cousin — so ! Cousin Alexander ! a rich man, 
and reunited to the son he drove into shameful exile. Well, 
we will see this confidential lawyer ; and until then — until • 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 347 

then — why, we are the schoolmistress of Red Gulch, arid 
responsible for its youthful prodigals. \Going to schoolhouse 
door.'] 

Miss Mary [stopping to examine flowers']. Poor, poor 
Sandy ! Another offering, and, as he fondly believes, un- 
known and anonymous ! As if he were not visible in every 
petal and leaf ! The mariposa blossom of the plain. The 
snow flower I longed for, from those cool snow-drifts beyond 
the ridge. And I really believe he was sober when he 
arranged them. Poor fellow ! I begin to think that the dis- 
sipated portion of this community are the most interesting. 
Ah ! some one behind the rock, — Sandy, I'll wager. No ! 
a stranger ! 

Col. Siarbottle \_aside, and advancing]. If I could make 
her think I left those flowers ! \Aloud?^ "When I state that 
■ — er — I am perhaps — er — stranger — 

Miss Alary [interrupting him coldly]. You explain, sir, 
your appearance on a spot which the rude courtesy of even 
this rude miners' camp has preserved from intrusion. 

Starbottle [slightly abashed, but recovering hi?nself]. Yes 
— Ged !— that is, I — er — saw you admiring — er — tribute 
— er — humble tribute of flowers. I am myself passionately 
devoted to flowers. Ged ! I've spent hours — in — er — bend- 
ing over the— er — graceful sunflower, in — er — plucking the 
timid violet from the overhanging but reluctant bough, in 
collecting the — er — er — -fauna — I mean tlie — ex— flora — of 
this — er — district. 

Miss Mary [jvlw has been regarding him intently']. Permit 
me to leave you uninterrupted admiration of them. [Hand- 
ing himflotvers^ You will have ample time in your journey 
down the gulch to indulge your curiosity I 

[Hands Starbottle flowers, enters schoolhouse, a7id 
quietly closes door on Starbottle as Sandy 
Morton enters cautiously and sheepishly from 



348 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

left. Sandy stops in astonishment on observing 
Starbottle, a?id remains by wing left. 

Starbottle \smelling floivers, and not noticing Miss Mary's 
absence\. Beautiful — er — exquisite. [Looking icp at closed 
door?\ Ged ! most extraordinary disappearance ! \Looks 
armmd, and discovers Sandy ; examines him for a moment 
through his eyeglass, and then, after a pause, inflates his chest, 
turns his back on Sandy, and advances to schoolhouse door. 
Sandy comes quickly, and, as Starbottle raises his cane 
to rap on door, seizes his ar7?i. Both men, regarding 
each other fix.edly, holding each other, retreat sloivly and 
cautiously to centre. Then Starbottle disejtgages his 
arm.^ 

Sandy \embarrassedly but determinedly\ Look 'yer, 
stranger. By the rules of this camp, this place is sacred to 
the school-ma'am and her children. 

Starbottle {with lofty severity']. It is ! Then — er — permit 
me to ask, sir, what you are doing here, 

Sandy \embarrassed, and dropping his head in confusioii\. 
I was passing. There is no school to-day. 

Starbottle. Then, sir, Ged ! permit me to — er — demand 
— demand, sir, an apology. You have laid, sir, your hand 
upon my person — demn me ! Not the first time, sir, either ; 
for, if I am not mistaken, you are — er — inebriated menial, 
sir, who two months ago jostled me, sir — demn me — as I 
entered the rancho of my friend Don Jose Castro. 

Sandy \startiiig aside]. Don Jose ! [Aloud.] Hush, 
hush ! She will hear you. No — that is — [stops confused 
and embarrassed. Aside. ] She will hear of my disgrace. He 
will tell her the whole story. 

Starbottle. I shall await your apology one hour. At the 
end of that time, if it is not forthcoming, I shall — er — er — 
waive your menial antecedents, and expect the — er — satis- 



Tzvo Men of Sandy Bar. 349 

faction of a gentleman. Good-morning, sir. \Turiis to 
scJioolhousei\ 

Sandy. No, no ! you shall not go ! 

Starbottle. Who will prevent me ? 

Sandy [grappling hun?\ I will. \AppeaUngly!\ Look 
'yer, stranger -, don't provoke me, I, a desperate man, despe- 
rate and crazed with drink, — don't ye, don't ye do it ! For 
God's sake, take your hands off me ! Ye don't know what 
ye do. Ah ! [ Wildly holding Starbottle _/f;7;//j^, andforci?ig 
him backward to precipice heyoiid ledge of rocks.] Hear 
me. Three years ago, in a moment like this, I dragged a 
man — my friend — to this precipice. I — I — no, no : — don't 
anger me now ! [Sandy's grip on Starbottle relaxes slightly 
and his head droops.] 

Starbottle [coolly]. Permit me to remark, sir, that any 
reminiscence of your — er — friend — or any other man, is — er 
— at this moment irrelevant and impertinent. Permit me 
to point out the — er — fact, sir, that your hand is pressing 
heavily, demned heavily, on my shoulder. 

Sandy [fiercely]. You shall not go ! 

Starbottle [fiercely]. Shall not ? 

\St niggle. Starbottle draws derringer from his 
breast-pocket, and Sandy seizes his arm. In this 
position both parties struggle to ledge of rocks, and 
Col. Starbottle is forced partly over. 

Miss Mary [openi?ig schoolhouse-door]. I thought I heard 
voices. [Looking toward ledge of rocks, where Coi.. Starbottle 
a7id Sandy are partly hiddeji by trees. Both men relax grasp 
of each other at Miss Mary's voice.] 

Col. Starbottle [aloud, and with voice slightly raised, to 
Sandy]. By — er — leaning over this way a moment, a single 
moment, you will — er — perceive the trail I speak of It 



350 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

follows the canon to the right. It will bring you to — er — 
the settlement in an hour. \To Miss Mary, qs if observing 
her for the first tivie?[ I believe I am — er — right ; but, being 
— er — more familiar with the locality, you can direct the 
gentleman better. 

[Sandy slowly sinks on his knees beside rock, with 
his face averted from schoolhouse, as Col. Star- 
bottle disengages himself, and advances Jauntily 
and gallantly to schoolhouse. 

Col. Starbottle. In — er — er — showing the stranger the — 
er — way, I perhaps interrupted our interview. The — er — 
observances of — er — civility and humanity must not be fore- 
gone, even for — er — the ladies. I — er — believe I address 
Miss Mary Morris. When I — er — state that my name is 
Col. Starbottle, charged on mission of — er — delicate nature, 
I believe I — er — explain my intrusion. 

[Miss Mary bows, and 77iotions to schoolhouse-door ; 
Col. Starbottle, bozving deeply, enters ; but 
Miss Mary remains standi?ig by door, looking 
toward trees that hide Sandy. • 

Miss Mary [aside]. I am sure it was Sandy's voice ! 
But why does he conceal himself ? 

Sandy \aside, rising slotvly to his feet, with his back to 
schoolhouse-door\. Even this conceited bully overcomes me, 
and shames me with his readiness and tact. He was quick 
to spare her — a stranger — the spectacle of two angry men. 
I — I — must needs wrangle before her very door ! Well, 
well ! better out of her sight forever, than an object of pity 
or terror. \Exit slowly, and with dow7icast eyes, right P^ 

Afiss Mary \watching the trail]. It was Sandy ! and 
this concealment means something more than bashful- 



Two Men of Saitdy Bar. 351 

ness. Perhaps the stranger can explain. [Enters school- 
house and closes door.^ 



Scene 2. — The same. Enter Concho, lame^ cautiously, from 
R. Pauses at r., a7id then beckons to Hop Sing, who 
follows R. 

Concho \impatiently\. Well, you saw him? 

Hop Sing. Me see him. 

Concho. And you recognised him? 

Hop Sing. No shabe likoquise. 

Coficho [furiously']. You knew him, eh ? Carramba ! 
you knew him ? 

Hop - Sing [slowly and sententiottsly]. Me shabe man you 
callee Diego. Me shabbee Led Gulchee call Sandy. Me 
shabbee man Poker Flat callee Alexandlee Molton. Allee 
same, John ! Allee same ! 

Concho [rubbing his hands.] Bueno ! Good John ! good 
John ! And you knew he was called Alexander Morton ? 
And go on — good John — go on ! 

Hop Sing. Me plentee washee shirtee — Melican man 
Poker Flat. Me plentee washee shirt Alexandlee Molton. 
Always litee, litee on shirt allee time. [Pointi?ig to tail of 
his blouse, and imitati?ig writing with finger^ Alexandlee 
Molton. Melican man tellee me — shirt say Alexandlee 
Molton — shabbee ? 

Concho. Bueno ! Excellent John. Good John. His 
linen marked Alexander Morton. The proofs are gathering. 
[Crosses to c] The letter I found in his pack, addressed to 
Alexander Morton^ Poker Flat, which first put me on his 
track ; the story of his wife's infidelity, and her flight with 
his partner to Red Gulch, the quarrel and fight that sepa- 
rated them, his flight to San Jose, his wanderings to the 



352 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

mission of San Carmel, to the rancho of the Holy Fisherman. 
The record is complete ! 

Hop Sing. Alexandlee Molton — 

Concho \Jmrriedly returning to Hop Sing]. Yes ! good 
John; yes, good John— go on. Alexander Morton — 

Hop Sing. Alexandlee Molton. Me washee shirt, 
Alexandlee Molton ; he no pay washee. Me washee flowty 
dozen hep — four bittie dozen — twenty dollar hep. Alex- 
andlee Molton no payee. He say, " Go to hellee ! " You 
pay me [extending his hand\ 

Coticho. Car — ! [checking himself?^ Poco fiempo, John ! 
In good time, John. Forty dollar — yes. Fifty dollar ! To- 
morrow, John. 

Hop Sing. Me no likee '' to-moUow ! " Me no likee 
" nex time, John ! " Allee time Melican man say, " Chalkee 
up, John," "No smallee change, John." Umph ! Plenty 
foolee me ! 

Coficho. You shall have your money, John \ but go now 
— you comprehend. Carraniba ! go! [Pushes Hop Sing to 
wing.'\ 

Hop Sing [exposttilatijig\ Flowty dozen, hep, John ! 
twenty dollar, John. Sabe. Flowty — twenty — [gesticulating 
with fingers. 1 

[Exit Hop 'SiX^g, pushed off by Concho. 
Concho. The pagan dolt ! But he is important. Ah ! if 
he were wiser, I should not rid myself of him so quickly ! 
And now for the schoolmistress, — the sweetheart of Sandy. 
If these men have not lied, he is in love with her ; and if he 
is, he has told her his secret before now ; and she will be 
swift to urge him to his rights. If he has not told her — 
umph ! [laughing] it will not be a day — an hour — before she 
will find out if her lover is Alexander Morton, the rich man's 
son, or " Sandy," the unknown vagabond. Eh, friend Sandy ! 
It was a woman that locked up your secret : it shall be a 



Two Men of Sa?idy Bar. 353 

woman, Madre di Dios ! who shall unlock it. Ha ! \Goes 
to door of schoolhouse as door opens, and appears CoL. Star- 
bottle.] 

Concho [aside], A thousand devils ! the lawyer of the 
old man Morton. [A/oud.] Pardon, pardon ! I am a 
stranger. I have lost my way on the mountain. I am 
seeking a trail. Senor, pardon ! 

Starbottle \aside\. Another man seeking the road ! Ged ! 
I believe he's lying too. {Aloud.] It is before you, sir, 
doivn, — down the mountain. 

Concho. A thousand thanks, senor. [Aside.] Perdition 
catch him ! [A/oud] Thanks, senor. [Exit r. 

Starbottle. Ged ! I've seen that face before. Ged ! it's 
Castro's major-domo. Demn me, but I believe all his do- 
mestics have fallen in love with the pretty schoolma'am. 

Enter Miss M.A.ViYfrom schoolhouse. 

Miss Mary [slowly refolding letter]. You are aware, then, 
of the contents of this note; and you are the friend of 
Alexander Morton, sen.? 

Col. Starbottle. Permit me a moment, a single moment, 
to — er — er — explain. I am Mr. Morton's legal adviser. 
There is — er — sense of — er — responsibility, — er — personal 
responsibility, about the term " friend," that at the — er — er 
— present moment I am not — er — prepared to assume. 
The substance of the letter is before you. I am here to — er — 
express its spirit. I am here [with great gallantry] to express 
the — er — yearnings of cousinly afifectron. I am aware — er — 
that our conduct, — if I may use the — er — the plural of advo- 
cacy, — I am aware that — &x—our conduct has not in the past 
years been of — er — er — exemplary character. I am aware 
that the — er — death of our lamented cousin, your sainted 
mother, was — er — hastened — I may — er — say — pre-cipi- 

VOL. I. Z 



354 ^^^ Men of Sandy Bar. 

tated — by our — er — indiscretion. But we are here to — er 
— confess judgment — with- — er — er — costs. 

Miss Mary \interrupting\. In other words, your client, 
my cousin, having ruined my father, having turned his own 
widowed relation out of doors, and sent me, her daughter, 
among strangers to earn her bread ; having seen my mother 
sink and die in her struggle to keep her family from want, — 
this man now seeks to condone his offences — pardon me, sir, 
if I use your own legal phraseology — by offering me a home \ 
by giving me part of his ill-gotten wealth, the association of 
his own hypocritical self, and the company of his shameless, 
profligate son — 

Starbottle \interrupting\. A moment, Miss Morris, — a 
single moment! The epithets you have used, the — er — 
vigorous characterisation of our — er — conduct, is— er — • 
within the — er — strict rules of legal advocacy, correct. We 
are — er — rascals ! we are — er — scoundrels ! we are — er — 
well, I am not — er — prepared to say that we are not — er — 
demn me — hypocrites ! But the young man you speak of 
— our son, whose past life (speaking as Col. Starbottle) no 
one more sincerely deprecates than myself, — that young man 
has reformed ; has been for the past few months a miracle 
of sobriety, decorum, and industry; has taken, thanks to 
the example of — er — friends, a position of integrity in his 
father's business, of filial obedience in his father's household ; 
is, in short, a paragon ; and, demn me, I doubt if he's his 
father's son. 

Miss Mary. Enough, sir ! You are waiting for my 
answer. There is no reason why it should not be as precise, 
as brief, and as formal as your message. Go to my cousin ; 
say that you saw the person he claims as his relation ; say 
that you found her a poor schoolmistress in a mining-camp, 
dependent for her bread on the scant earnings of already 
impoverished men, dependent for her honour on the rude 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 355 

chivalry of outcasts and vagabonds ; and say that then and 
there she repudiated your kinship, and respectfully declined 
your invitation. 

Starbottle \aside\. Ged ! Star, this is the — er — female of 
your species ! This is the woman — the — er — one woman — 
for whom you are responsible, sir — personally responsible ! 

Miss Mary \coldly\. You have my answer, sir. 

Col. Starbottle. Permit me — er — single moment — a single 
moment ! Between the — er — present moment and that of 
my departure there is an — er — interval of twelve hours. 
May I, at the close of that interval, again present myself, 
without prejudice, for your final answer ? 

Miss Mary [indifferently]. As you will, sir. I shall be 
here. 

Col. Starbottle. Permit me. \_Takes her hand gallantly. "] 
Your conduct and manner. Miss Morris, remind me — er — 
singularly of — er — beautiful creature — one of the — er — first 
families. [Observing Miss Mary regarding him amusedly, 
becomes embarrassed.] That is — er — I mean — er — er — 
good morning, Miss Morris ! [Passes by schoolhouse-door 
retreating and bowing, and picks up flowers fro7n door-step^ 
Good morning ! 

Miss Mary. Excuse me, Col. Starbottle [with winning 
politeness], but I fear I must rob you of those flowers. I 
recognise them now as the offering of one of my pupils. I 
fear I must revoke my gift [taking flowers from astonished 
ColoneVs hand], all except a single one for your buttonhole. 
Have you any choice, or shall I [archly] choose for you ? 
Then it shall be this. [Begins to place flowers in buttonhole. 
Col. Starbottle exhibiting extravagant gratitude in dumb 
show. Busi?iess prolonged through M.issM.A.'SCi^^ speech.] If 
I am not wrong. Colonel, the gentleman to whom you so 
kindly pointed out the road this morning was not a stranger 
to you. Ah ': i am right. There, — one moment, — a sprig 



35 6 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

of green, a single leaf, would set off the pink nicely. Here 
he is known only as " Sandy." You know the absurd habits 
of this camp. Of course he has another name. There ! 
{releasing the Colonel] — it is much prettier now. 

Col. Starbottle. Ged, madam ! The rarest exotic — the 
Victoria Regina — is not as — er — graceful — er — tribute ! 

Miss Mary. And yet you refuse to satisfy my curiosity ? 

Col. Starbottle \with great embarrassment^ which at last 
resolves itself into increased dignity of man?ier\ What you 
ask is — er — er — impossible ! You are right : the — er — gen- 
tleman you allude to is known to me under — er — er — another 
name. But honour — Miss Morris, honour ! — seals the lips 
of Col. Starbottle. [Aside.] If she should know he was a 
menial ! No ! the position of the man you have challenged, 
Star, must be equal to your own. [Alotid.] Anything, 
Miss Morris, but — er — that ! 

Miss Mary [smiling]. Be it so. Adios, Col. Starbottle. 

Col. Starbottle [gallantly]. Au revoir, Miss Morris. 

[Exit, impressively, left. 

Miss Mary. So Sandy conceals another name, which 
he withholds from Red Gulch. Well ! pshaw ! What is 
that to me ? The camp is made up of refugees, — men who 
perhaps have good reason to hide a name that may be 
infamous, the name that would publish a crime. Nonsense ! 
Crime and Sandy ! No ! Shame and guilt do not hide them- 
selves in those honest but occasionally somewhat bloodshot 
eyes. Besides, goodness knows ! the poor fellow's weakness is 
palpable enough. No, that is not the reason ; it is no guilt 
that keeps his name hidden, — at least, not his. [Seatijig her- 
self and arrangifig flowers in her lap.] Poor Sandy ! he must 
have climbed the eastern summit to get this. See, the rosy 
sunrise still lingers in its very petals ; the dew is fresh upon 
it. Dear little mountain baby ! I really believe that fellow 
got up before daylight to climb that giddy height and 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 357 

secure its virgin freshness. And to think in a moment of spite 
I'd have given it to that bombastic warrior ! [Fause.] That 
was a fine offer you refused just now, Miss Mary. Think 
of it j a home of luxury, a position of assured respect and 
homage ; the life I once led, with all its difficulties smoothed 
away, its uncertainty dispelled, — think of it ! My poor 
mother's dream fulfilled, — I, her daughter, the mistress of 
affluence, the queen of social power ! What a temptation ! 
Ah ! Miss Mary, was it a temptation ? Was there nothing in 
your free life here that stiffened your courage, that steeled 
the adamant of your refusal ? or was it only the memory of 
your mother's wrongs ? Luxury and wealth ! Could you 
command a dwelling more charming than this ? Position 
and respect ! Is not the awful admiration of these lawless 
men more fascinating than the perilous flattery of gentlemen 
like Col. Starbottle ? Is not the devotion of these outcasts 
more complimentary than the lip-service of perfumed gal- 
lantry? [/'(a:Kj'^.] It's very odd he doesn't come. I wonder 
if that conceited old fool said anything to him. [Jizses, and 
then seats herself smiling.'] He has come. He is dodging in 
and out of the manganita bushes below the spring. I suppose 
he imagines my visitor still here. The bashful fool ! If 
anybody should see him, it would be enough to make a petty 
scandal ! I'll give him a talking-to. [Pause.'] I wonder if 
the ridiculous fool has gone to sleep in those bushes. [Rises.] 
Well, let him : it will help him to recover his senses from 
last night's dissipation ; and you, Miss Mary, it is high time 
you were preparing the lessons for to-morrow. [Goes to 
schoolhouse, enters door, and slams it behind her ; after a 
moment reappears with empty bucket.] Of course there's 
no water, and I am dying of thirst, [Goes slowly to left, 
and pauses embarrassedly and bashfully, presently laughs, 
suddenly frowns and assumes an appearance of indignation."] 
Miss Mary Morris, have you- become such an egregious 



358 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

fool that you dare not satisfy the ordinary cravings of 
human nature, just because an idle, dissipated, bashful 
blockhead — nonsense 1 

\Exit, brandishing paiL 



Scene 3. — The same. 

[A pause. Sandy's voice tmthout.'] This way, miss : the 
trail is easier. 

[Miss Mary's voice without.'] Never mind me : look 
after the bucket. 

Enter Sandy, carrying bucket with water, followed by 
Miss Mary. Sandy sets bucket down. 

Miss Mary. There ! you've spilt half of it If it had been 
whisky, you'd have been more careful. 

Sandy \suhniissively\ Yes, miss. 

Miss Mary [aside]. "Yes, miss!" The man will drive 
me crazy with his saccharine imbeciHty. [Aloud.] I believe 
you would assent to anything, even if I said you were an 
impostor ! 

Sandy [amazedly]. An impostor. Miss Mary? 

Miss Mary. Well, I don't know what other term you 
use in Red Gulch to express a man who conceals his real 
name under another. 

Sandy [embarrassed, but facing Miss Mary]. Has any- 
body been tellin' ye I was an impostor, miss? Has that 
derned old fool that I saw you with 

Miss Mary. " That old fool," as you call him, was too 
honourable a gentleman to disclose your secret, and too 
loyal a friend to traduce you by an epithet. Fear nothing, 
Mr. " Sandy." If you have limited your confidence to one 



Two Men of Sandy Bar, 359 

friend, it has not been misplaced. But, dear me, don't 
think / wish to penetrate your secret. No ! The little I 
learned was accidental. Besides, his business was with me : 
perhaps, as his friend, you already know it. 

Sandy [meekly]. Perhaps, miss, he was too honourable a 
gentleman to disclose your secret. His business was 'with 
me. 

Mtss Mary [aside]. He has taken a leaf out of my 
book ! He is not so stupid, after all. [A/ozid.] I have no 
secret. Col. Starbottle came here to make me an oifer. 

Sandy [recoiling]. An offer ! 

Miss Mary, Of a home and independence. [Aside.] 
Poor fellow ! how pale he looks ! [Aloud,] Well you see, I 
am more trustful than you. I will tell you my secret, and 
you shall aid me with your counsel. [They sit on ledge oj 
rocks,] Listen ! My mother had a cousin once, — a cousin 
cruel, cowardly, selfish, and dissolute. She loved him, as 
women are apt to love such men, — loved him so that she 
beguiled her own husband to trust his fortunes in the hands 
of this wretched profligate. The husband was ruined, dis- 
graced. The wife sought her cousin for help for her 
necessities. He met her with insult, and proposed that she 
should fly with him. 

Sandy. One moment, miss : it wasn't his partner, — his 
partner's wife — eh ? 

Miss Mary [impatiently]. It was the helpless wife of his 
own blood, I tell you. The husband died broke n-heirted. 
The wife, my mother, struggled in poverty, under the shadow 
of a proud name, to give me an education, and died while 
I was still a girl. To-day this cousin, — this more than 
murderer of my parents, — old, rich, self-satisfied, reforfned, 
invites me, by virtue of that kinship he violated and de- 
spised, to his home, his wealth, his — his family roof-tree ! 
The man you saw was his agent. 



360 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

Sandy. And you — 

Miss Mary. Refused. 

Sandy [passing his hand over his forehead\. You did wrong, 
Miss Mary. 

Miss Mary. Wrong, sir? \Rising!\ 

Sandy \Jiumily butfirnily\ Sit ye down, Miss Mary. It 
ain't for ye to throw your bright young life away 'yer in this 
place. It ain't for such as ye to soil your fair young hands 
by raking in the ashes to stir up the dead embers of a 
family wrong. It ain't for ye — ye'U pardon me, Miss Mary, 
for sayin' it — it ain't for ye to allow when it's too late fur a 
man to reform or to go back of his reformation. Don't ye 
do it, miss, fur God's sake, — don't ye do it ! Harken, Miss 
Mary. If ye'll take my advice — a fool's advice, maybe — 
ye'll go. And when I tell ye that that advice, if ye take it, 
will take the sunshine out of these hills, the colour off them 
trees, the freshness outer them flowers, the heart's blood 
outer me, — ye'U know that I ain't thinkin' o' myself, but of 
ye. And I wouldn't say this much to ye, Miss Mary, but 
you're goin' away. There's a flower, miss, you're wearin' in 
your bosom, — a flower I picked at daybreak this morning, 
five miles away in the snow. The wind was blowing chill 
around it, so that my hands that dug for it were stiff and 
cold ; but the roots were warm. Miss Mary, as they are now 
in your bosom. Ye'll keep that flower. Miss Mary, in re- 
membrance of my love for ye, that kept warm and blossomed 
through the snow. And, don't start. Miss Mary, — for ye'll 
leave behind ye, as I did, the snow and rocks through which 
it bloomed. I axes your parding, miss — I'm hurtin' yer 
feelins, sure. 

Miss Maty \rising with agitation.'\ Nothing, — nothing; 
but climbing these stupid rocks has made me giddy : that's 
all. Your arm. \To Sandy impatiently^ Can't you give 
me your arm? [Sandy supports Miss Mary awkwardly 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 361 

toward schoolhouse. At door Miss Mary pauses^ But if 
this reformation is so easy, so acceptable, why have you not 
profited by it ? Why have you not reformed ? Why have 
I found you here, a disgraced, dissipated, anonymous out- 
cast, whom an honest girl dare not know ? Why do you 
presume to preach to me ? Have you a father ? 

Sandy. Hush ! Miss Mary, hush ! I had a father. 
Harken ! All that you have suffered from a kinship even 
so far removed, I have known from the hands of one who 
should have protected me. My father was — but no matter. 
You, Miss Mary, came out of your trials like gold from the 
washing. I was only the dirt and gravel to be thrown 
away. It is too late, Miss Mary, too late. My father has 
never sought me, would turn me from his doors had I 
sought him. Perhaps he is only right. 

Miss Mary. But why should he be so different from 
others ? Listen ! This very cousin whose offer I refused 
had a son, — wild, wayward, by all report the most degraded 
of men. It was part of my cousin's reformation to save this 
son, and, if it were possible, snatch him from that terrible 
fate which seemed to be his only inheritance. 

Sandy [eagerly]. Yes, miss. 

Miss Mary. To restore him to a regenerated home. 
With this idea he followed his prodigal to California. I, 
you understand, was only an after-thought consequent upon 
his success. He came to California upon this pilgrimage two 
years ago. He had no recollection, so they tell me, by which 
he could recognise this erring son ; and at first his search was 
wild, profitless, and almost hopeless. But by degrees, and with 
a persistency that seemed to increase with his hopelessness, 
he was rewarded by finding some clue to him at — at — at — 

Sandy [excitedly']. At Poker Flat? 

Miss Mary. Ah ! perhaps you know the story, — at Poker 
Flat. He traced him to the Mission of San Carmel — 



362 Two Men of Sandy Bar, 

Sandy. Yes, miss ; go on. 

Miss Mary. He was more successful than he deserved, 
perhaps. He found him. I see you know the story. 

Sandy. Found him ! found him ! Miss, did you say 
found him ? 

Miss Mary. Yes, found him. And to-day Alexander 
Morton, the reclaimed prodigal, is part of the household I 
am invited to join. So you see, Mr. Sandy, there is still 
hope. What has happened to him is only a promise to you. 
Eh ! Mr. Sandy — what is the matter ? Are you ill ? Your 
exertion this morning, perhaps. Speak to me ! Gracious 
heavens, he is going mad ! No ! no ! Yes — it cannot 
be — it is — he has broken his promise : he is drunk again. 

Sandy \rising, excited and confused\ Excuse me, miss, 
I am a little onsartain here \_pointing to his head\ I can't 
— I disremember — what you said just now : ye mentioned 
the name o' that prodigal that was found. 

Miss Mary. Certainly : compose yourself, — my cousin's 
son, Alexander Morton. Listen, Sandy : you promised nie^ 
you know, you said for my sake you would not touch a 
drop. 

\Enter cautiously toward schoolhoiise the Duchess ; 
stops on observing Sandy, and hides behhid 
rock. 

Sandy [still bewildered and incoherent\ I reckon. Harken, 
miss ; is that thar thing [pointing towards rock where 
Duchess is concealed^ — is that a tree, or — or — a woman? 
Is it sorter movin' this way ? 

Miss Mary [laying her hand on Sandy's]. Recover your 
senses, for heaven's sake, Sandy, — for my sake ! It is only 
a tree. 

Sandy [rising^ Then, miss, I've broke my word with 
ye : I'm drunk. P'r'aps I'd better be a-goin' [lookin^ round 
confusedly'] till I'm sober. [Going toward L. 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 363 

Miss Mary [seizing his hancr\. But you'll see me again, 
Sandy : you'll come here— before — before — I go? 

Sandy. Yes, miss, — before ye go. [Staggers stupidly 
toward L. Aside.'] Found him ! found Alexander Morton ! 
It's a third time, Sandy, the third time : it means — it means 
you're mad ! [Laughs wildly, and exit L.] 

Miss Mary [springing to her feet']. There is a mystery 
behind all this, Mary Morris, that you — you — must discover. 
That man was not drunk : he had not broken his promise 
to me. What does it all mean ? I have it. I will accept 
the offer of this Alexander Morton. I will tell him the 
story of this helpless man, this poor, poor, reckless Sandy. 
With the story of his own son before his eyes, he cannot 
but interest himself in his fate. He is rich : he will aid me 
in my search for Sandy's father, for Sandy's secret. At the 
worst, I can only follow the advice of this wretched man, — 
an advice so generous, so kind, so self-sacrificing. Ah ! — 



Scene 4. — The same. Enter the Duchess, showily and 
extravagantly dressed. Her manner at first is a mixture 
of alternate shyness and bravado. 

The Duchess. I heerd tell that you was goin' down to 
'Frisco to-morrow, for your vacation ; and I couldn't let ye 
go till I came to thank ye for your kindness to my boy, — 
little Tommy. 

Miss Maty [aside, risifig abstractedly, and recalling 
herself with an effort.] I see, — a poor outcast, the mother, 
of my anonymous pupil. [Aloud.] Tommy ! a good boy, 
— a dear, good little boy. 

The Duchess. Thankee, miss, thankee. If I am his 
mother, thar ain't a sweeter, dearer, better boy lives than 
him. And, if I ain't much as says it, thar ain't a sweeter, 



364 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

dearer, angeler teacher than he's got. It ain't 'for you to 
be complimented by me, miss; it ain't for such as me 
to be comin' here in broad day to do it, neither; but I 
come to ask a favour, — not for me, miss, but for the darling 
boy. 

Miss Mary [aside, abstractedly^ This poor, degraded 
creature will kill me with her wearying gratitude. Sandy will 
not return, of course, while she is here. [Aloud.'\ Go on. 
If I can help you or yours, be assured I will. 

T/ze Duchess. Thankee, miss. You see, thar's no one 
the boy has any claim on but me, and I ain't the proper 
person to bring him up. I did allow to send him to 'Frisco 
last year ; but when I heerd talk that a schoolma'am was 
comin' up, and you did, and he sorter tuk to ye natril from 
the first, I guess I did well to keep him 'yer. For O miss, 
he loves ye so much ; and, if you could hear him talk in his 
purty way, ye wouldn't refuse him anything. 

Miss Mary \with fatigued politeness and increasing impa- 
tience?)^ I see, I see — pray go on. 

The Duchess [with quiet persistency]. It's natril he should 
take to ye, miss ; for his father, when I first knowed him, 
miss, was a gentleman like yourself; and the boy must for- 
get me sooner or later — and I ain't goin' to cry about that. 
Miss Mary [impatiently\ Pray tell me how I can serve you. 
The Duchess. Yes, miss ; you see, I came to ask you to 
take, my Tommy, — God bless him for the sweetest, bestest 
boy that lives — to take him with you. I've money plenty ; 
and it's all yours and his. Put him in some good school, 
whar ye kin go and see, and sorter help him to — forget — 
his mother. Do with him what you like. The worst you 
can do will be kindness to what he would learn with me. 
You will — I know you will, won't you? You will 
make him as pure and as good as yourself; and when 
he has grown up, and is a gentleman, you will tell him 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 365 

his father's name, — the name that hasn't passed my lips foi 
years, — the name of Alexander Morton. 

Miss Mary [aside]. Alexander Morton ! The prodigal ! 
Ah ! I see, — the ungathered husks of his idle harvest. 

T/ie Duchess. You hesitate. Miss Mary \seizing her\. 
Do not take your hand away. You are smiling. God bless 
you ! I know you will take my boy. Speak to me, Miss Mary. 

Miss Mary [aloud]. I will take your child. More than 
that, I will take hinl to his father. 

T/ie Duchess. No, no ! for God's sake, no, Miss Mary ! 
He has never seen him from his birth : he does not know 
him. He will disown him. He will curse him, — will curse 
me ! 

Miss Mary. Why should he ? Surely his crime is worse 
than yours. 

The Duchess. Hear me. Miss Mary. [Aside^ How can 
I tell her? [Aloud^ One moment, miss. I was once — ye 
may not believe it, miss — as good, as pure, as you. I had 
a husband, the father of this child. He was kind, good, 
easy, forgiving, — too good for me, miss, too simple and un- 
suspecting. He was what the world calls a fool, miss : he 
loved me too well, — the kind o' crime, miss, — beggin' your 
pardon, and all precepts to the contrairy, — the one thing that 
women like me never forgives. He had a pardner, miss, 
that governed him as he never governed me ; that held him 
with the stronger will, and maybe me too. I was young, 
miss, — no older than yourself then ; and I ran away with 
him, — left all, and ran away with my husband's pardner. 
My husband — nat'rally — took to drink. I axes your pardin', 
miss ; but ye'll see now, allowin' your larnin', that Alexander 
Morton ain't the man as will take my child. 

Miss Mary. Nonsense ! you are wrong. He has re- 
formed; he has been restored to his home, — your child's 



366 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

home, — your home if you will but claim it. Do not fear : 
I will make that right. 

Enter Sandy, slowly and sheepishly , r.; stops on observing the 
Duchess, and stands amazed and motionless. 

Miss Mary [observing Sandy — aside\ He has returned. 
Poor fellow ! How shall I get rid of this woman ? [Aloi^d.] 
Enough ! If you are sincere, I will take your child, and, 
God help me ! bring him to his home and yours. Are you 
satisfied ? 

The Duchess. Thank ye ! Thank ye, miss ; but — but 
thar's a mistake somewhar. In course it's natural. Ye 
don't know the father of that child, my boy Tommy, under 
the name o' Alexander Morton. Yer thinkin', like as not, of 
another man. The man I mean lives 'yer, in this camp : 
they calls him Sandy, miss, — Sandy ! 

Miss Mary [after a pause, co7Jiing forward passionately\. 
Hush ! I have given you my answer, be it Alexander 
Morton or Sandy. Go now : bring me the child this evening 
at my house. I will meet you there. [Leads the Duchess 
to wing. The Duchess endeavours to fall at her feet.'] 

Duchess. God bless you, miss ! 

Miss Mary [hurriedly embracing her.] No more, no more 
— ^but go ! 

Exit Duchess. Miss Mary returns hurriedly 
to centre, confronting Sandy. 

Miss Mary [to Sandy, hurriedly a?id excitedly]. You 
have heard what that woman said. I do not ask you 
under what alias you are known here : I only ask a single 
question, — Is she your wife ? are you the father of her child ? 

Sandy [sinking upon his knees before her, and covering his 
face with his hands]. I am ! 

Miss Mary. Enough ! [Taking flower from her bosom.] 
Here, I give you back the flower you gave me this morning. 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 367 

It has faded and died here upon my breast. But I shall 
replace it with your foundling, — the child of that woman, 
born like that flower in the snow ! And I go now, Sandy, 
and leave behind me, as yot said this morning, the snow 
and rocks in which it bloomed. Good-bye ! Farewell, fare- 
well — forever ! \Goes toward schoolhouse as — 

Enter CoL. Starbottle. 

Miss Mary [to Starbottle]. You are here in season, 
sir. You must have come for an answer to your question. 
You must first give me one to mine. Who is this man [pointing 
to Sandy], the man you met upon the rocks this morning? 

Co/. Starbottle. Ahem ! I am — er — now fully prepared 
and responsible, I may say, miss — er — personally responsible, 
to answer that question. When you asked it this morning, 
the ordinary courtesy of the — er — code of honour threw a 
— er — cloak around the — er — antecedents of the — er — man 
whom I had — er — elected, by a demand for personal satis- 
faction, to the equality of myself, an — er — gentleman ! 
That — er — cloak is now removed. I have waited six hours 
for an apology or a — er — reply to my demand. I am now 
free to confess that the — er — person you allude to was first 
known by me, three months ago, as an inebriated menial, — 
a groom in the household of my friend Don Josd Castro, — 
by the — er — simple name of " Diego." 

Miss Mary [slowly']. I am satisfied. I accept my cousin's 
invitation. [Exit slowly^ supported by Col. Starbottle, r.] 
\As Starbottle and Miss Mary exeunt sl., Concho 
and Hop Sing enter cautiously l. Sandy slowly 
rises to his feet, passes his hand across his fore- 
head, looks around toward exit of Starbottle 
a7id Miss Mary. 

Sandy [slowly, but with more calmness of demeanour]. 
Gone, gone — forever ! No : I am not mad, nor crazed with 



368 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

drink. My hands no longer tremble. There is no con- 
fusion here. \Feeling his forehead.'\ I heard them all. It 
was no dream. I heard her every word. Alexander 
Morton, yes, they spoke of Alexander Morton. She is 
going to him, to my father. She is going— she, Mary, my 
cousin — she is going to my father. He has been seeking 
me — has found — ah ! \G7'oans^ No, no, Sandy ! Be 
patient, be calm : you are not crazy — no, no, good Sandy, 
good old boy ! Be patient, be patient : it is coming, it is 
coming. Yes, I see : some one has leaped into my place j 
some one has leaped into the old man's arms. Some one 
will creep into her heart ! No ! by God ! No ! I am 
Alexander Morton. Yes, yes ! But how, how shall I prove 
it ? — ^how ? Who [Concho steps cautiously forward towards 
Sandy unobserved] will believe the vagabond, the outcast — 
my God ! — the crazy drunkard ? 

Concho [advancing, and laying his hand on Sandy]. 
I will ! 

Sandy [staggering back amazedly\ You ! 

Concho. Yes — I — I — Concho ! You know me, Diego, 
you know me, — Concho, the major-domo of the Blessed 
Innocents. Ha ! you know me now. Yes, I have come to 
save you. I have come to make you strong. So ! I have 
come to help you strip the Judas that has stepped into 
your place, — the sham prodigal that has had the fatted calf 
and the ring, — ah ! ah ! 

Sandy. You ? You do not know me ! 

Concho. Ah ! you think, you think, eh ? Listen ! Since 
you left me I have tracked him — the impostor, this Judas, 
this coyote — step by step, until his tracks crossed yours; 
and then I sought you out. I know all. I found a letter 
you had dropped ; that brought me to Poker Flat. Ah ! you 
start ! I have seen those who knew you as Alexander 
Morton. You see ! Ah ! I am wise. 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 369 

Sandy \aside\. It is true. \Aloicd?^ But \siispicmcsly\ 
why have you done this ? You, Concho ? — you were not 
my friend. 

Concho. No, but he is my enemy. Ah ! you start. Look 
at me, Alexander Morton, Sandy, Diego ! You knew a 
man, strong, active, like yourself. Eh ! look at me now ! 
Look at me, a cripple ! Eh ! lame and crushed here 
\j>oi?itt?ig to his /eg], broken and crushed here \j>ointing 
to his heart], by him, — the impostor ! Listen, Diego ! The 
night I was sent to track you from the rancho, he — this 
man — struck me from the wall, dashed me to the earth, and 
made my body, broken and bruised, a stepping-stone to leap 
the wall into your place, Diego — into your father's heart 
— into my master's home. They found me dead, they 
thought, — no, not dead, Diego ! It was sad, they said, — 
unfortunate. They nursed me ; they talked of money — eh ! 
Diego ! — money ! They would have pensioned me to hush 
scandal — eh ! I was a dog, a foreigner, a Greaser ! Eh ! 
That is why I am here. No ! I love you not, Diego ; 
you are of his race ; but I hate — Mother of God ! — I 
hate him ! 

Sandy [rising to his feet, aside]. Good ! I begin to feel 
my courage return ; my nerves are stronger. Courage, 
Sandy ! \Aloud^ Be it so, Concho : there is my hand ! 
We will help each other, — you to my birthright, I to your 
revenge ! Hark ye ! [Sandy's manner becomes 7nore calm 
and serious.] This impostor is no craven, no coyote. Who- 
ever he is, he must be strong. He has most plausible 
evidences. We must have rigid proofs. I will go with you 
to Poker Flat. There is one man, if he be living, knows 
me better than any man who lives. He has done me 
wrong, — a great wrong, Concho, — but I will forgive him. 
I will do more,— I will ask his forgiveness. He will be a 
VOL. I. 2 \ 



3 JO Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

witness no man dare gainsay — my partner — God help him 
and forgive him as I do ! — John Oakhurst. 

Concho. Oakhurst your partner ! 

Sandy \_angnly\. Yes. Look ye, Concho, he has 
wronged me in a private way : that is my business, not 
yours ; but he was my partner, — no one shall abuse him 
before me. 

Cojicho. Be it so ! Then sink here ! Rot here ! Go 
back to your husks, O prodigal ! wallow in the ditches of 
this camp, and see your birthright sold for a dram of 
aguardiente ! Lie here, dog and coyote that you are, with 
your mistress under the protection of your destroyer ! For 
I tell you — I, Concho, the cripple — that the man who struck 
me down, the man who stepped into your birthright, the 
man who to-morrow welcomes your sweetheart in his arms, 
who holds the custody of your child, is your partner — John 
Oakhurst ! 

Sandy \uiho has been sinkhig under Concho's words, 
rising convulsively to his feet\ God be merciful to me a 
sinner ! \Faints^ 

Concho [standing over his prostrate body exultingly\ I am 
right. You are wise, Concho ! you are wise ! You have 
found Alexander Morton ! 

Hop Sing [advancing slowly to Sandy's side, and extending 
open palm\ Me washee shirt flo you, flowty dozen hab. 
You no payee me. Me wantee twenty dollar hep. Sabe. 

[Curtain^ 

END OF ACT IL 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 371 



ACT III. 

Scene i. — The lank parlour oj Morton &* Son, San Francisco. 
Room richly furnished ; ttvo square lih-ary desks left and 
right. At right, safe i?i wall ; at left, sa7)ie with practicable 
doors. Folding door in fiat c, leading to counting-roo?n. 
Door in left to private room of Alexander Morton, sen.; 
door in right to private room of Morton, jun. Alexander 
Morton, sen., discovered at desk r., opening and readijig 
letter 

Moj'ton, sen. [laying down letter']. Well, well ! the usual 
story ! Letters from all sorts of people who have done or 
intend to do all sorts of things for my reclaimed prodigal. 
\Feads.'\ " Dear Sir : five years ago I loaned some money to a 
stranger who answers the description of your recovered son. 
He will remember Jim Parker, — Limping Jim, of Poker 
Flat. Being at present short of funds, please send twenty 
dollars, amount loaned, by return mail. If not convenient, 
five dollars will do as instalment." Pshaw ! \_Thro7vs letter 
aside and takes zip another.'] " Dear Sir : I invite your 
attention to enclosed circular for a proposed Home for 
Dissipated and Anonymous Gold-Miners. Your well-known 
reputation for liberality, and your late valuable experience 
in the reformation of your son, will naturally enlist your 
broadest sympathies. We enclose a draft for five thousand 
dollars for your signature." We shall see. Another : " Dear 
Sir : the Society for the Formation of Bible Classer in the 



372 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

Upper Stanislaus acknowledge your recent munificent gift 
of five hundred dollars to the cause. Last Sabbath Brother 
Hawkins of Poker Flat related with touching effect the story 
of your prodigal to an assemblage of over two hundred 
miners. Owing to unusual expenses, we regret to be com- 
pelled to draw upon you for five hundred dollars more." 
So ! \Piitting down letter?^ If we were given to pride and 
vainglory, we might well be puffed up with the fame of our 
works and the contagion of our example : yet I fear that, 
with the worldly-miinded, this praise of charity to others is 
only the prayerful expectation of some personal application 
to the praiser. \Rmgs hand-bell.'\ 

Enter Jackson. 

\To Jackson.] File these letters {/landing letters] with the 
others. There is no answer. Has young Mr. Alexander 
come in yet ? 

Jackso7i. He only left here an hour ago. It was steamer 
day yesterday : he was up all night, sir. 

Old Morton [aside]. True. And the night before he 
travelled all night, riding two hours ahead of one of our 
defaulting agents, and saved the bank a hundred thousand 
dollars. Certainly his devotion to business is unremitting. 
[Aloud] Any news from Col. Starbottle? 

Jackson. He left this note, sir, early this morning. 
Old Morton [takes it and reads]. " I think I may say, 
on my own personal responsibility, that the mission is suc- 
cessful. Miss Morris will arrive to-night with a female 
attendant and child." [To Jackson.] That is all, sir. 
Stop ! Has any one been smoking here .'* 

Jackson. Not to my knowledge, sir. 
Old Morton. There was a flavour of stale tobacco-smoke 
in the room this morning when I entered, and ashes on the 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 373 

carpet. I know that young Mr. Alexander has abandoned 
the pernicious habit. See that it does not occur again. 

Jackson. Yes, sir. \_Aside'\ I must warn Mr. Alexander 
that his friends must be more careful ; and yet those ashes 
were good for a deposit of fifty thousand. 
Old Morton. Is any one waiting ? 

Jackson. Yes, sir, — Don Jose Castro and Mr. Capper. 
Old Morton. Show in the Don : the policeman can 
wait. 

Jackson. Yes, sir. [Exit, 

Old Morton \taking tip Starbottle's note\. " Miss Morris 
will arrive to-night." And yet he saw her only yesterday. 
This is not like her mother : no. She would never have for- 
given and forgotten so quickly. Perhaps she knew not my sin 
and her mother's wrongs ; perhaps she has — has — Christian 
forgiveness \sarcastically\ ; perhaps, like my prodigal, she 
will be immaculately perfect. Well, well ! at least her pre- 
sence will make my home less lonely. " An attendant and 
child." A child ! Ah ! if he, my boy, my Alexander, were 
still a child, I might warm this cold, cold heart in his sun- 
shine ! Strange that I cannot reconstruct from this dutiful, 
submissive, obedient, industrious Alexander, — this redeemed 
outcast, this son who shares my life, my fortunes, my heart, 
— the foolish, wilful, thoughtless, idle boy that once defied 
me. I remember \inusing with a smile\ how the little rascal, 
ha ! ha ! once struck me, — struck me ! — when I corrected 
him : ha ! ha ! ^Rubbing his hands with amuseme7it, and then 
suddenly becoming grave and lugubrious. '\ No, no ! These 
are the whisperings of the flesh. Why should I find fault 
with him for being all that a righteous conversion demands, 
— all that I asked and prayed for ? No, Alexander Morton, 
it is you, yoic who are not yet regenerate. It is you who are 
ungrateful to Him who blessed you, to Him whose guiding 
hand led you to — 



374 Two Men of Sandy Bar, 

Enter Jackson. 
Jackson. Don Jos^ Castro. 

Enter Don Jos£ 

Don Jos'e. A thousand pardons, seiior, for interrupting 
you in the hours of business ; but it is — it is of business I 
would speak. \Looking around^ 

Old Mortoji [to Jackson]. You can retire. [Exit Jack 
son.] Be seated, Mr. Castro : I am at your service. 

Do7iJose. It is of your — your — son — 

Old Morton. Our firm, is Morton & Son : in business we 
are one, Mr. Castro. 

Don Jose. Bueno I Then to you as to him I will speak. 
Here is a letter I received yesterday. It has significance, 
importance perhaps. But, whatever it is, it is something for 
you, not me, to know. If I am wronged much, Don Alex- 
andre, you, you are wronged still more. Shall I read it ? 
Good ! [Reads?^ " The man to whom you have affianced 
your daughter is not the son of Alexander Morton. Have 
a care. If I do not prove him an impostor at the end of six 
days, believe me one, and not your true friend and servant, 
Concho." In six days, Don Alexandre, the year of probation 
is over, and I have promised my daughter's hand to your 
son. [Hands letter to Morton.] 

Old Morton [ringing bell]. Is that all, Mr. Castro ? 

Don Josk. All ! Mr. Castro ? Cari-amha 1 is it not 
enough ? 

E7iter Jackson. 

Old Morton [to Jackson]. You have kept a record of 
this business during the last eighteen months. Look at this 
letter, [Handing letter.] Is the handwriting familiar? 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 375 

Jackson [taking letter]. Can't say, sir. The form is the 
old one. 

Old Morion. How many such letters have you re- 
ceived ? 

Jackson. Four hundred and forty-one, sir. This is the 
four hundred and forty-second application for your son's 
position, sir. 

Don Jose. Pardon ! This is not an application : it is 
only information or caution. 

Old Morton [to Jackson]. How many letters of infor- 
mation or caution have we received ? 

Jackson. This makes seven hundred and eighty-one, sir. 
Gld Morton. How, sir ! \_Q.uickly^ There were but 
seven hundred and seventy-nine last night. 

Jackson. Beg pardon, sir ! The gentleman who carried 
Mr. Alexander's vaUse from the boat was the seven hundred 
and eightieth. 

Old Morton. Explain yourself, sir. 

Jackson. He imparted to me, while receiving his stipend, 
the fact that he did not believe young Mr. Alexander was 
your son. An hour later, sir, he also imparted to me con- 
fidentially that he believed you were his father, and requested 
the loan of five dollars, to be repaid by you, to enable him 
to purchase a clean shirt, and appear before you in respect- 
able condition. He waited for you an hour, and expressed 
some indignation that he had not an equal show with others, 
to throw himself into your arms. 

Don Jost [rising, aside, and uplifting his hands], Car- 
ramba I These Americanos are of the devil ! \Aloud^ 
Enough, Don Alexandre ! Then you think this letter is 
only worth — 

Old Morton. One moment. I can perhaps tell you ex- 
actly its market value. \To Jackson.] Go on, sir. 

Jackson. At half-past ten, sir, then being slightly under 



37^ Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

the influence of liquor, he accepted the price of a deck 
passage to. Stockton. 

Old Morton. How much wa'' that, sir ? 

Jackson. Fifty cents. 

Old Morton. Exactly so ! There you have, sir \to Don 
Jose], the market value of the information you have received. 
I would advise you, as a business matter, not to pay more. 
As a business matter, you can at any time draw upon us for 
the amount, \To Jackson.] Admit Mr. Capper. \Exit 
Jackson.] 

Don Josk \rising with dignity]. This is an insult, Don 
Alexandro. 

Old Morton, You are wrong, Mr. Castro : it is business, 
sought, I believe, by yourself. Now that it is transacted, 
I beg you to dine with me to-morrow to meet my niece. 
No offence, sir, no offence ! Come, come ! Business, 
you know, business ! 

Do7iJose [relaxing]. Be it so ! I will come. [Aside.] 
These Americanos, these Americanos are of the devil ! 
[Aloud.] Adios. [Going.] I hear, by report, that you 
have met with the misfortune of a serious loss by robbery. 

Old Morton [aside]. So our mishap is known every- 
where ! [Aloud.] No serious misfortune, Mr. Castro, 
even if we do not recover the money. Adios. [Exit 
Don Josii;.] 

Old Morton. The stiff-necked Papist ! That he should 
dare, for the sake of his black-browed, froward daughter, 
to question the faith on which I have pinned my future ! 
Well, with God's blessing, I gave him some wholesome 
discipline. If it were not for my covenant with Alexander, 
— and nobly he has fulfilled his part, — I should forbid his 
alliance with the blood of this spying Jesuit. 



Two Men of Sandy Bar, 2i17 



Enter Mr. Jackson, leading in Capper. 

Jackson. Policeman, sir. \Exit. 

Capper [turning sharply]. Who's that man ? 

Old Morton. Jackson, clerk. 

Capper. Umph ! Been here long ? 

Old Morton. A year. He was appointed by my son. 

Capper. Know anything of his previous life ? 

Old Morton \_stiffly\. I have already told you he is an 
appointee of my son's. 

Capper. Yes ! [Aside."] " Like master, like man." 
[Aloud.] Well, to business. We have worked up the rob- 
bery. We have reached two conclusions, — one, that the 
work was not done by professionals ; the other, consequent 
upon this, that you can't recover the money. 

Old Morton. Excuse me, sir, but I do not see the last 
conclusion. 

Capper. Then listen. The professional thief has only 
one or two ways of disposing of his plunder, and these ways 
are always well known to us. Good ! Your stolen coin 
has not been disposed of in the regular way, through the 
usual hands which we could at any time seize. Of this we 
are satisfied. 

Old Morton. How do you know it ? 

Capper. In this way. The only clue we have to the 
identification of the missing money were two boxes of 
Mexican doubloons. 

Old Morton [aside]. Mr. Castro's special deposit ! He 
may have reason for his interest. [Aloud^ Go on. 

Capper. It is a coin rare in circulation in the interior. 
The night after the robbery, the dealer of a monte-table in 
Sacramento paid out five thousand dollars in doubloons. 
He declared it was taken in at the table, and could not 



378 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

identify the players. Of course, of course ! So far, you 
see, you are helpless. We have only established one fact, — 
that the robber is — is \significantly\ a gambler. 

Old Morton \_quietly\. The regular trade of the thief 
seems to me to be of little importance if you cannot identify 
him or recover my money. But go on, sir, go on : or is 
this all ? 

Capper \aside\. The old fool is blind. That is natural. 
[Aloud.] It is not all. The crime will doubtless be re- 
peated. The man who has access to your vaults, who has 
taken only thirty thousand dollars when he could have 
secured half a million, — this man, who has already gambled 
that thirty thousand away, — will not stop there. He will 
in a day or two, perhaps to-day, try to retrieve his losses 
out of jour capital. / am here to prevent it. 

Old Morton [becoming inte7'ested\. How ? 

Capper. Give me, for forty-eight hours, free access to 
this building. Let me conceal myself somewhere, anywhere 
within these walls. Let it be without the knowledge of 
your clerks, even oiyour son ! 

Old Morton [proudly], Mr. Alexander Morton is absent 
to-day. There is no other reason why he should not be 
here to consent to the acts of his partner and father. 

Capper [quickly]. Very good. It is only to ensure ab- 
solute secrecy. 

Old Morton [aside]. Another robbery might excite a 

suspicion worse for our credit than our actual loss. There 

is a significant earnestness about this man that awakens 

my fears. If Alexander were only here ! [Aloud^ I accept. 

[Capper has been trying doors R. and i- 

Capper. What room is this ? [At r.] 

Old Morton. My son's. I would prefer — 

Capper. And this ? [At l.] 

Old Morton. Mine, sir ; if you choose — 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 379 

Capper [locking door mid putting key in his pocket\. This 
will do. Oblige me by making the necessary arrangements 
in your counting-room. 

Old Morton [/lesitating and aside']. He is right : perhaps 
it is only prudence, and I am saving Alexander additional 
care and annoyance. [Exit. 

Enter Mr. Shadow cautiously, c 

Shadow [in a lisping whisper to Capper.] I've got the 
litht of the clerkth complete. 

Capper [triumphantly]. Put it in your pocket, Shadow. 
We don't care for the lackeys now : we are after the 
master. 

Shadow. Eh ! the mathter ? 

Capper. Yes, the master, — the young master, the 
reclaimed son, the reformed prodigal ! ha, ha ! — the young 
man who compensates himself for all his austere devotion 
to business and principle by dipping into the old man's 
vaults when he wants a pasear — eh, Shadow ? That's the 
man we're after. Look here ! / never took any stock in 
that young man's reformation. Ye don't teach old sports 
like him new tricks. They're a bad lot, father and son, — 
eh, Shadow ? — and he's a chip of the old block, I spotted 
him before this robbery, before we were ever called in here 
professionally. I've had my eye on Alexander Morton, 
alias John Oakhurst; and, when I found the old man's 
doubloons raked over a monte-table at Sacramento, I knew 
where to look for the thief. Eh, Shadow ? 

Shadow [aside]. He ith enormouth, thith Mithter Capper. 

Enter Old Morton. 
Old Morton I have arranged everything. You will 



380 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

not be disturbed or suspected here in my private officer 
Eh ! \Looking at Shadow.] Who has slipped in here? 

Capper. Only my shadow, Mr. Morton ; but I can rid 
myself even of that. \Crosses to Shadow.] Take this card 
to the office, and wait for further orders. Vanish, Shadow ! 

\Exit Shadow. 

Enter Jackson. 

Jackson. Mr. Alexander has come in, sir. [Old Morton 
and Capper start.^ 

Old Morton. Where is he ? 

Jackson. In his private room, sir. 

Old Morton. Enough ; you can go. \Exit Jackson. 

Capper {crossing to Morton]. Remember, you have given 
your pledge of secrecy. Beware ! Your honour, your 
property, the credit and reputation of your bank, are at 
stake. 

Old Morton [after a pause of hesitation, with dignity], 
I gave you my word, sir, while my son was not present. I 
shall save myself from breaking my word with you or con- 
cealing anything from him, by withdrawing myself. For 
the next twenty-four hours, this room [pointing to private 
room R.] is yours. 

[Each regards the other. Exit Old Morton c, as 
Capper exit in private room r. After a pause, 
door of room opens, and Harry York appears, 
slightly intoxicated, followed by John Oakhurst. 

Harry York [looking around]. By Jove ! Morton, but 
you've got things in style here. And this 'yer's the gov'nor's 
desk ; and here old Praise-God Barebones sits opposite ye. 
Look 'yer, old boy [throwing himself in chair], I kin allow 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 381 

how it comes easy for ye to run this bank, for it's about as 
exciting, these times, as faro was to ye in '49, when I first 
knew ye as Jack Oakhurst ; but how the devil you can sit 
opposite that stiff embodiment of all the Ten Commandments 
day by day, damn it ! that's wot gets me ! Why, the first 
day I came here on business, the old man froze me so that 
I couldn't thaw a deposit out of my pocket. It chills me 
to think of it. 

Oakhurst \hastily\. I suppose I am accustomed to him. 
But come, Harry, let me warm you. \Opens door of safe l. 
and discovers cupboard, decanter, and glasses^ 

York [laughmg]. By Jove ! under the old man's very 
nose. Jack, this is like you. [Takes a drink.'] Well, old 
boy, this is like old times. But you don't drink. 

Oakhurst. No, nor smoke. The fact is, Harry, I've 
taken a year's pledge. I've six days still to run ; after that 
[gloomily], why [with a reckless laugh], I shall be Jack 
Oakhurst again. 

York. Lord ! to think of your turning out to be anybody's 
son, Jack ! — least of all, his ! [Pointing to chair.] 

Oakhurst [laughing recklessly]. Not more strange than 
that I should find Harry York, the spendthrift of Poker 
Flat, the rich and respected Mr. York, produce merchant of 
San Francisco. 

York. Yes ; but, my boy, you see I didn't strike it — in 
a rich father. I gave up gambling, married, and settled 
down, saved my money, invested a little here and there, 
and worked for it. Jack, damn me, — worked for it like a 
damned horse ! 

Oakhurst [aside]. True, this is not work. 

York. But that ain't my business with ye now, old boy ; 
it's this. You've had some trials and troubles in the bank 
lately, — a defalcation of agents one day, a robbery next. 
It's luck, my boy, luck ! but ye know people will talk. You 



382 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

don't mind my sayin' that there's rumours 'round. The old 
man's mighty unpopular because he's a saint; and folks 
don't entirely fancy you because you used to be the reverse. 
Well, Jack, it amounts to 'bout this : I've withdrawn my 
account from Parkinson's in Sacramento, and I've got a 
pretty heavy balance on hand — nigh on two hundred 
thousand — in bonds and certificates here ; and if it will 
help you over the rough places, old boy, as a deposit, 'yer it 
is Idrawing pocket-book^ 

Oakhurst [greatly affected, but endeavouring to conceal //]. 
Thank you, Harry, old fellow, but — 

York \_quickly\. I know; I'll take the risk, a business 
risk You'll stand by me all you can, old boy ; you'll make 
it pay all you can ; and if you lose it — why — all right ! 

Oakhurst [embarrassed']. As a deposit with Morton &_ 
Son, drawing two per cent, monthly interest — 

York. Damn Morton & Son ! I'll back it with Jack 
Oakhurst, the man I know. 

Oakhurst [advancing slowly], I'll take it, Harry. 

York [extending his hand]. It's a square game. Jack ! 

Oakhurst [seizing his hand with repressed emotion]. It's 
a square game, Harry York, if I live. 

York. Then I'll travel. Good-night, old boy. I'll send 
my clerk around in the morning to put things right. Good- 
night [going]. 

Oakhurst [grasping York's hand]. One moment — no — 
nothing ! Good-night. [Exit York. 

[Oakhurst follows him to door, and then returns 
to desk, throwing himself in chair, and burying 
his face in his hands. 

Oakhurst [with deep feeling]. It needed but this to fill 
the measure of my degradation. I have borne the sus- 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 383 

picions of the old man's enemies, the half-pitying, half-con- 
temptuous sympathy of his friends, even his own cold, 
heartless, fanatical fulfilment of his sense of duty ; but this 
— this confidence from one who had most reason to scorn 
me, this trust from one who knew me as I was, — this is the 
hardest burden. And he too in time will know me to be 
an impostor. He too — a reformed man; but he has 
honourably retraced his steps, and won the position I hold 
by a trick, an imposture. And what is all my labour beside 
his honest sincerity ? I have fought against the chances 
that might discover my deception, against the enemies 
who would overthrow me, against the fate that put me 
here; and I have been successful — yes, a successful im- 
postor ! I have even fought against the human instinct 
that told this fierce, foolish old man that /was an alien to 
his house, to his blood; I have even felt him scan my 
face eagerly for some reflection of his long-lost boy, for 
some realisation for his dream ; and I have seen him turn 
away, cold, heartsick, and despairing. What matters that 
I have been to him devoted, untiring, submissive, ay ! a 
better son to him than his own weak flesh and blood would 
have been ? He would to-morrow cast me forth to welcome 
the outcast, Sandy Morton. Well, what matters? {Reck- 
lessly i\ Nothing. In six days it will be over ; in six days 
the year of my probation will have passed ; in six days I 
will disclose to him the deceit I have practised, and will 
face the world again as John Oakhurst the gambler, who. 
staked and lost all on a single cast. And Jovita ! Well, 
well ! — the game is made ; it is too late to draw out now. 
\Rings bell. Enter Jackson.] Who has been here ? 

Jackson. Only Don Jose and Mr. Capper the detective. 

Oakhurst. The detective ? What for ? 

Jackson. To work up the robbery, sir. 

Oakhurst. True ! Capper, Capper, ye.s ! A man of 



384 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

wild and ridiculous theories, but well-meaning, brave, and 
honest. [Ast'de.] This is the old man's idea. He does 
not know that I was on the trail of the thieves an hour 
before the police were notified. [Aloud.] Well, sir? 

Jackson. He told your father he thought the recovery of 
the money hopeless, but he came to caution us against a 
second attempt. 

Oakhurst [aside, starting]. True ! I had not thought of 
that. [Excitedly.] The success of their first attempt will 
incite them to another ; the money they have stolen is gone 
by this time. [Aloud.] Jackson, I will stay here to-night 
and to-morrow night, and relieve your regular watchman. 
You will, of course, say nothing of my intention. 

Jackson. Yes, sir. [Lingering.] 

Oakhurst [after a patise]. That is all, Mr. Jackson. 

Jackson. Beg your pardon, Mr. Morton ; but Col. Star- 
bottle, with two ladies, was here half an hour ago, and said 
they would come again when you were alone. 

Oakhurst. Very well : admit them. 

Jackson. Beg pardon, sir ; but they seemed to avoid 
seeing your father until they had seen you. It looked 
mysterious, and I thought I would tell you first. 

Oakhurst [laughing]. Admit them, Mr. Jackson. [Exit 
Jackson.] This poor fellow's devotion is increasing. He 
too believes that his old associate in dissipation, John Oak- 
hurst, is the son of Alexander Morton. He too will have 
to share in the disgrace of the impostor. Ladies ! umph ! 
[Looking down at his clothes.] I'm afraid the reform of 
Alexander Morton hasn't improved the usual neatness of 
John Oakhurst. I haven't slept nor changed my clothes 
for three days. [Goes to door of Morton, sen.'s, room.] 
Locked, and the key on the inside ! That's strange. Non- 
sense ! the old man has locked his door, and gone out through 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 385 

the private entrance. Well, I'll find means of making my 
toilet here. \Exit into private room l. 

Enter Jackson, leading in CoL. Starbottle, Miss Mary, 
the Duchess, and child of three years. 

Jackson. Mr. Alexander Morton, jun., is in his private 
00m. He will be here in a moment. \Exit Jackson. 

Starbottle. One moment, a single moment, Miss Mary. 
Permit me to — er — if I may so express myself, to — er — 
group the party, to — er — place the — er — present company 
into position. I have — er — observed, as part of my — er 
— legal experience, that in cases of moral illustration a great, 
I may say — er-^tremendous, effect on the — er — jury, I mean 
the — er — guilty party, has been produced by the attitude of 
the — er — victim and martyr. You, madam, as the — er — 
injured wife \^placing her], shall stand here, firm yet expect- 
ant, protecting your child, yet looking hopefully for assist- 
ance toward its natural protector. You, Miss Mary, shall 
stand here [placing her\ as Moral Retribution, leaning 
toward and appealing to me, the image of — er — er — Inflex- 
ible Justice ! \I71flates his chest, puts his hand in his bosom, 
and strikes an attitude.] 

[Door of young Morton's room opens, and discloses 
Mr. Oakhurst gazing at the group. He starts 
slightly on observing the Duchess, but instantly 
recovers himself and faces the company coldly. 
The Duchess starts on observing Oakhurst, 
and struggles in confusion towards the door, 
dragging with her the child and Miss Mary, 
who endeavours to reasstire her. Col. Star- 
bottle looks in astonishment from one to the 
other, and advances to front. 
Col. Starbottle [aside]. The — er — tableau, although 
VOL. I. 2 B 



386 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

striking in moral force, is apparently — er — deficient in 
moral stamina. 

Miss Mary [angrily to the Duchess]. I'm ashamed of 
you ! \To Oakhurst, advand?ig.'\ I don't ask pardon for 
my intrusion. If you are Alexander Morton, you are my 
kinsman, and you will know that I cannot introduce myself 
better than as the protector of an injured woman. Come 
here ! [To the Duchess, dragging her towards Oakhurst. 
To Oakhurst.] Look upon this woman : she claims to 
be— 

Sfarbottk [stepping between Miss Mary ««^ //?!(? Duchess], 
A moment, Miss Mary, a single moment ! Permit me 
to — er — explain. The whole thing, the — er — situation 
reminds me, demn me, of most amusing incident at 
Sacramento in '52. Large party at Hank Suedecois : 
know Hank? Confirmed old bach of sixty. Dinner for 
forty. Everything in style, first families, Ged, — Judge 
Beeswinger, Mat Boompointer, and Maje Blodgett of Ahla- 
bam : know old Maje Blodgett ? Well, Maje was there. 
Ged, sir, delay, — everybody waiting. I went to Hank. 
"Hank," I says, "what's matter? why delay?" "Star," 
he says, — always called me Star, — "Star, — it's cook!" 
"Demn cook," I says: "discharge cook, — only a black 
mulatto any way !" " Can't, Star," he says : " impossible ! " 
" Can't? " says I. " No," says he. " Listen, Star," he says, 
" family secret ! Honour ! Can't discharge cook, because 
cook — demn it — 's my wife!" pact, sir, fact — showed 

marriage certificate — married privately seven years ! Fact, 
sir — 

The Duchess [to Miss Mary]. Some other time, miss. 
Let us go now. There's a mistake, miss, I can't explain. 
Some other time, miss ! See, miss, how cold and stern he 
looks ! another time, miss ! [Struggling.'] For God's sake, 
miss, let me go ! 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. ^i^*] 

Miss Mary. No ! This mystery must be cleared up 
now, before I enter his house, — before I accept the charge 
of this — 

Starbottle \inferrupting, and crossing before Miss Mary]. 
A moment — a single moment, miss. \^To Oakhurst.] 
Mr, Morton, you will pardon the exuberance, and perhaps, 
under the circumstances, somewhat natural impulsiveness, 
of the — er — sex, for which I am perhaps responsible; I 
may say — er — personally, sir, — personally responsible — 

Oakhurst [coldly]. Go on, sir. 

Starbottle. The lady on my right is — er — the niece of 
your father, — your cousin. The lady on my left, engaged 
in soothing the — er — bashful timidity of infancy, is — er — that 
is — er — claims to be, the mother of the child of Alexander 
Morton. 

Oakhtirst [calmly]. She is right. 

Miss Mary [rushing forward]. Then you are — 

Oakhurst [gently restraining her]. You have another 
question to ask : you hesitate : let me ask it. [Crossing to 
the Duchess.] You have heard my answer. Madam, are 
you the legal wife of Alexander Morton ? 

The Duchess [sinking upon her knees and dropping her face 
in her hands]. No ! 

Oakhurst. Enough ! I will take the child. Pardon me, 
Miss Morris, but you have heard enough to know that your 
mission is accomplished, but that what else passes between 
this woman and myself becomes no stranger to hear. 
\Motions toward room l.] 

Miss Mary [aside]. It is his son. I am satisfied [going]. 
Come, Colonel. [Exeujit into room l., Starbottle and 
Miss Mary.] 

The Duchess [crossing to Oakhurst and falling at his 
feet]. Forgive me, Jack, forgive me ! It was no fault of 



388 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

mine. I did not know that you were here. I did not 
know that you had taken his name ! 

Oakhurst Hush — on your life ! 

The Duchess. Hear me, Jack ! I was anxious only for 
a home for my child. I came to her — the schoolmistress 
of Red Gulch — for aid. I told her the name of my boy's 
father. She — she brought me here. Oh, forgive me, Jack ! 
I have offended you ! 

Oakhurst. How can I believe you ? You have deceived 
him. You have deceived me. Listen ! When I said, a 
moment ago, you were not the wife of Alexander Morton, 
it was because I knew that your first husband — the Austra- 
lian convict Pritchard — was still living ; that you had 
deceived Sandy Morton as you had deceived me. That 
was why I left you. Tell me, have you deceived me also 
about him, as you did about the other? Is he living, and 
with you j or dead, as you declared ? 

The Duchess [aside]. He will kill me if I tell him. 
[Aloud.] No, no ! He is gone — is dead these three years. 

Oakhurst. You swear? 

The Duchess [hesitates, gasps, and looks around for her 
child ; then seizing it, and drawing it towards her]. I 
swear ! 

Oakhurst. Enough! Seek not to know why /am here, 
and under his name. Enough for you that it has saved 
your child's future, and secured him his heritage past all 
revocation. Yet remember ! a word from you within the 
next few days destroys it all. After that, I care not what 
you say. 

The Duchess. Jack ! One word. Jack, before I go. I 
never thought to bring my shame to you ! — to him ! 

Oakhurst. It was no trick, then, no contrivance, that 
brought her here. No : it was fate. And at least I shall 
save his child. 



Two Men of Sandy Bar, 389 

Re-enter Starbottle, Miss Mary, and Duchess. 

Col. Starbottle \impressively\. Permit me, Mr. Alexander 
Morton, as the friend of my — er — principal, to declare that 
we have received — honourable — honourable — satisfaction. 
Allow me, sir, to grasp the hand, the — er — cherished hand 
of a gentleman, who, demn me ! has fulfilled all his duties 
to — er — society and gentlemen. And allow me to add, sir, 
should any invidious criticism of the present — er — settle- 
ment be uttered in my presence, I shall hold that critic 
responsible, sir — er — personally responsible ! 

Miss Mary \_sweeping truculently and aggressively up to 
John Oakhurst]. And permit me to add, sir, that, if you 
can see your way clearly out of this wretched muddle, it's 
more than I can. This arrangement may be according to 
the Californian code of morality, but it doesn't accord with 
my Eastern ideas of right and wrong. If this foolish, 
wretched creature chooses to abandon all claim upon you, 
chooses to run away from you, — why, I suppose, as a gentle- 
man, according to your laws of honour, you are absolved. 
Good-night, Mr. Alexander Morton. 

\Goes to door c, and exit, pushing out Starbottle, 

the Duchess, and child. Mr. Oakhurst sinks 

into chair at desk, burying his face in his hands. 

jRe-efiter, slowly and embarrassedly. Miss Mary : 

looks toward Oakhurst, and comes slowly down 

stage. 

J Miss Mary [aside']. I was too hard on him. I was not 

so hard on Sandy when I thought that he — he — was the 

father of her child. And he's my own flesh and blood, too ; 

and — he's crying. \_Aloud.'\ Mr. Morton. 

Oakhurst \_slowly lifting his head]. Yes, Miss Mary. 
Miss Mary. I spoke hastily just then. I — I — thought 
— you see — I — [angrily and passionately] — I mean this. I'm 



390 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

a stranger. I don't understand your Californian ways, and 
I don't want to. But I believe you've done what you 
thought was right, according to a man's idea of right ; and 
— there's my hand. Take it, take it ; for it's a novelty, Mr. 
Morton : it's the hand of an honest girl ! 

Oakhurst \Iiesitaies, then rises, sinks on one knee, and 
raises Miss Mary's fingers to his lips]. God bless you, 
miss ! God bless you ! 

Miss Mary [retreating to centre door]. Good-night, good- 
night [siowly], — cousin — Alexander. 

[Exit. Dark stage. 

Oakhurst [rising swiftly]. No, no : it is false ! Ah ! 
She's gone. Another moment, and I would have told her 
all. Pshaw ! courage, man ! It is only six days more, and 
you are free, and this year's shame and agony forever 
ended. 

Enter Jackson. 

Jackson. As you ordered, sir, the night watchman has 
been relieved, and has just gone. 

Oakhurst. Very good, sir ; and you ? 

Jackson. I relieved the porter, sir ; and I shall bunk on 
two chairs in the counting-room. You'll find me handy, if 
you want me, sir. Good-night, sir. [Exit c. 

Oakhurst. I fear these rascals will not dare to make 
their second attempt to night. A quiet scrimmage with 
them, enough to keep me awake or from thinking, would 
be a good fortune. No, no ! no such luck for you to-night, 
John Oakhurst ! You are playing a losing game. . . . Yet 
the robbery was a bold one. At eleven o'clock, while the 
bank was yet lighted, and Mr. Jackson and another clerk 
were at work here, three well-dressed men pick the lock of 
the counting-house door, enter, and turn the key on the 
clerks in this parlour, and carry away a box of doubloons 



Two Me7i of Sandy Bar. 391 

not yet placed in the vaults by the porter ; and all this done 
so cautiously that the clerks within knew nothing of it until 
notified of the open street-door by the private watchman, 
and so boldly that the watchman, seeing them here, believed 
them clerks of the bank, and let them go unmolested. No : 
this was the coincidence of good luck, not of bold premedi- 
tation. There will be no second attempt. [^Yaw7is.'] If 
they don't come soon I shall fall asleep. Four nights with- 
out rest will tell on a man, unless he has some excitement 
to back him. [Nods.'] Hallo ! What was that ? Oh ! 
Jackson in the counting-room getting to bed. I'll look at 
that front door myself. 

[Takes revolver from desk and goes to door c, tries 

lock, co?)ies down stage with revolver, examines it, 

and lays it down. 

Oakhurst [slowly and quietly]. The door is locked on the 

outside : that may have been an accident. The caps are 

taken from my pistol : that was not ! Well, here is the 

vault, and here is John Oakhurst : to reach the one they 

must pass the other. [Takes off his coat, seizes j>oker from 

grate, and approaches safe.] Ha ! some one is moving in 

the old man's room. [Approaches door of room r. as — 

Enter noiselessly a?id cautiotisly fro7n room L., Pritchard, 
Silky, atid Soapy. Pritchard and his confederates 
approach Oakhurst fi-om behind, carrying lariat, or slip- 
noose. 

Oakhurst [listening at door r.]. Good ! At least I know 
from what quarter to expect the attack. Ah ! 

[Pritchard throws slip-noose over Oakhurst from 
behind ; Oakhurst puts his hand ifi his breast 
as the slip-noose is drawn across his bosom, 
pinioning one artn over his breast, and the other 



392 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

at his side. Silky and Soapy, directed by 
Pritchard, drag Oakhurst to chair front, and 
pinion his legs. Pritchard c, regarding him. 

Oakhurst [very coolly]. You have left me my voice, I 
suppose, because it is useless. 

Pritchard. That's so, pard. 'Twon't be no help to ye. 

Oakhurst. Then you have killed Jackson. 

Pritchard. Lord love ye, no ! That ain't like us, pard ! 
Jackson's tendin' door for us, and kinder lookin' out 
gin'rally for the boys. Thar's nothin' mean about Jackson. 

Soapy. No ! Jackson's a square man. Eh, Silky ? 

Silky. Ez white a man ez ther is, pard ! 

Oakhurst [aside]. The traitor ! [Aloud.] Well ! 

Pritchard. Well, you want ter know our business. Call 
upon a business man in business hours. Our little game is 
this, Mr. Jack Morton Alexander Oakhurst. When we was 
here the other night, we was wan tin' a key to that theer 
lock [pointing to vault\ and we sorter dropped in passin' to 
get it. 

Oakhurst. And suppose I refuse to give it up ? 

Pritchard. We were kalkilatin' on yer being even that 
impolite : wasn't we, boys ? 

Silky and Soapy. We was that. 

Pritchard. And so we got Mr. Jackson to take an 
impression of it in wax. Oh, he's a square man, is Mr. 
Jackson ! 

Silky. Jackson is a white man. Soapy. 

Soapy. They don't make no better men nor Jackson, 
Silky. 

Pritchard. And we've got a duplicate key here. But 
we don't want any differences, pard : we only want a square 
game. It seemed to us — some of yer old pards as knew 
ye. Jack — that ye had a rather soft thing here reformin'; 
and we thought ye was kinder throwin' off on the boys, not 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 393 

givin' 'em any hand in the game. But thar ain't anythin' 
mean about us. Eh, boys ? 

Soapy. We is allers ready to chip in ekal in the game. 
Eh, Silky? 

Silky. That's me, Soapy. 

Pritchard. Ye see, the boys is free and open-handed, 
Jack. And so the proposition we wanter make to ye, Jack, 
is this. It's reg'lar on the square. We reckon, takin' Mr. 
Jackson's word, — and thar ain't no man's word ez is better 
nor Jackson's — that there's nigh onto two millions in that 
vault, not to speak of a little speshil de-posit o' York's, ez 
we learn from that accomodatin' friend Mr. Jackson. We 
propose to share it with ye, on ekal terms — us five — countin' 
Jackson, a square man. In course, we takes the risk o' 
packin' it away to-night comfortable. Ez your friends, Jack, 
we allow this 'yer little arrangement to be a deuced sight 
easier for you than playin' Sandy Morton on a riglar salary, 
with the chance o' the real Sandy poppin' in upon ye any 
night. 

Oakhurst. It's a lie. Sandy is dead. 

Pritchard. In course, in course ! that is your little game ! 
But we kalkilated, Jack, even on that, on yer bein' ram- 
bunktious and contrary ; and so we went ter Red Gulch, 
and found Sandy. Ye know I take a kind o' interest in 
Sandy : he's the second husband of my wife, the woman 
you run away with, pard. But thar's nothin' mean about 
me ! eh, boys ? 

Silky. No ! he's the forgivingest kind of a man, is 
Pritchard. 

Soapy. That's so. Silky. 

Pritchard. And, thinkin' ye might be dubious, we filled 
Sandy about full o' rye-whisky, and brought him along; 
and one of our pards is preambulatin' the streets with him, 
ready to bring him on call. 



394 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

Oakhurst It's a lie, Pritchard, — a cowardly lie ! 
Pritchard. Is it ? Hush ! 
Sandy \without, singmg\. 

Oh, 'yer's yer Sandy Morton, 

Drink him down ! 
Oh, 'yer's yer Sandy Morton, 

Drink him down ! 
Oh, 'yer's yer Sandy Morton, 

All alive and just a-snortin ! 
Oh, 'yer's yer Sandy Morton, 

Drink him down ! 

Pritchard. We don't propose to run him in 'yer, 'cept 
we're took, or yer unaccomodatin' to the boys. 

Oakhurst. And if I refuse ? 

Pritchard. Why, we'll take what we can get ; and we'll 
leave Sandy Morton with you 'yer, to sorter alleviate the old 
man's feelin's over the loss of his money. There's nothin' 
mean about us; no ! eh, boys? \_Going towards safe.'] 

Oakhurst. Hear me a moment, Henry Pritchard. 
[Pritchard stoJ)s abreast of Oakhurst.] Four years ago 
you were assaulted in the Arcade Saloon in Sacramento. 
You would have been killed, but your assailant suddenly fell 
dead by a pistol-shot fired from some unknown hand. I 
stood twenty feet from you with folded arms ; but that shot 
was fired by me, — me, Henry Pritchard, — through my 
clothes, from a derringer hidden in my waistcoat ! Under- 
stand me, I do not ask your gratitude now. But that pistol 
is in my right hand, and now covers you. Make a single 
motion, — of a muscle, — and it is your last, 

Pritchard [motionless, but excitedly]. You dare not fire ! 
No, dare not ! A shot here will bring my pal and Sandy 
Morton to confront you. You will have killed me to save 
exposure, have added murder to imposture ! You have no 
witness to this attempt ! 



Two Men of Sandy Bar, 395 

Capper \opening door of room l., at the same moment that 
two policemen appear at door c, and two at room r.] You 
are wrong ; he has five \cro5sing to Silky and Soapy, ana 
laying his hands on their shoulders] ; and, if I mistake not, 
he has two more in these gentlemen, whom I know, and 
who will be quite as willing to furnish the necessary State's 
evidence of the robbery, as of the fact that they never knew 
any other Alexander Morton than the gentleman who sits 
in that chair. 

Soapy. That's so. Silky. 

Silky. That's so. Soapy. 

Capper [to policeman"]. Take them away. 

\Exit policeman 7vith Pritchard, Soapy, and Silky. 
Capper unbinds Oakhurst. 

Oakhurst. Then I have to thank you, Mr. C. 

Capper. Yes ! " A man of ridiculous theories, but well- 
meaning, brave, and honest." No, sir ; don't apologise : 
you were right, Mr. Oakhurst. It is I who owe you an 
apology. I came here believing you were the robber, 
having no faith in you or your reformation, expecting, — yes, 
sir, — hoping, to detect you in the act. Hear me ! From 
the hour you first entered the bank, I have shadowed your 
every movement, I have been the silent witness of all that 
has passed in this room. You have played a desperate 
game, Mr. Oakhurst ; but I'll see you through it. If you 
are true to your resolve for the next six days, I will hold 
these wretches silent. I will protect your imposture with 
the strong arm of the law. I don't like your theories, sir ; 
but I believe you to be well-meaning, and I know you to 
be brave and honest. 

Oakhurst [grasping his hand]. I shall not forget this. 
But Sandy — 

Capper. I will put my men on his track, and have him 
brought quietly here. I can give you no aid beyond that. 



396 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

As an honourable man, I need not tell you your duty. 
Settle it with him as best you can. 

Oakhicrst. You are right ; I will see him ! [Aside.'\ 
Unless he has changed, he will listen to me, he will obey 
me. 

Capper. Hush ! [Blows out candle^ Stand here ! 

[Capper mid Oakhurst retreat to wing l., as enter 
Morton, sQ.n.,from room r. 

Morton. The private door open, the room dark, and 
Capper gone. I don't like this. The more I think of the 
mystery of that man's manner this morning, the more it 
seems to hide some terrible secret I must fathom ! There 
are matches here. [Strikes a light, as Capper draws Oak- 
hurst, struggling, back into shadow. "l What's this? [Pick- 
ing up key.] The key of the vault. A chair overturned ! 
[Touches Ml.'] No answer ! Jackson gone ! My God ! 
A terrible suspicion haunts me ! No ! Hush ! [Eetreats 
to private room r., as door ofi.. opens and 

Enter Sandy. 

Sandy [drunkenly]. Shoo ! Shoo ! boys, whar are ye, 
boys, eh ? Pritchard, Silky, Soapy ! Whar are ye, boys ? 

Morton [aside]. A crime has been committed, and here 
is one of the gang. God has delivered him into my hands. 
[Draws revolver and fires, as Oakhurst breaks from 
Capper, and strikes up Morton's pistol. 
Capper at same moment seizes Sandy, and 
drags him in room L. Morton and Oak- 
hurst struggle to centre. 
Morton [relaxing hold of Oakhurst]. Alexander ! Good 
God ! Why are you here ? Why have you stepped between 
me and retribution ? You hesitate. God in heaven ! 
Speak, Alexander, my son, speak, for God's sake ! Tell 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 397 

me — tell me that this detective's suspicions are not true. 
Tell me that you are not — not — no, I cannot say it. Speak, 
Alexander Morton, I command you ! Who is this man you 
have saved ? Is it — is it — your accomplice ? 

Oakhurst \sinking at his feef\. Don't ask me ! You know 
not what you ask ! I implore you — 

Capper [appearing quietly fro7n room L., and locki?tg the 
door behind hini\. Your son has acted under my orders. 
The man he has saved, as he has saved you, was a decoy, — 
one of my policemen. 

TABLEAU. 

Capper, Morton, Oakhurst. 

\Curtainl\ 

END OF ACT IIL 



398 Two Men of Smtdy Bar. 



ACT IV. 

Scene i. — Mr. Morton's villa^ Russian Hill. Night. 
Oakhurst's bedroom. Sofa in alcove c, door in flat left 
of c. Sandy Morton discovered unconscious lying on 
sofa ; Oakhurst standing at his head, two policemen at 
his feet. Candles on table l. 

Oakhurst. That will do. You are sure he was uncon- 
scious as you brought him in ? 

\st Policefnan. Sure, sir ! He hasn't known anything 
since we picked him up on the sidewalk outside the bank. 

Oakhurst. Good ! You have fulfilled your orders well, 
and your chief shall know it. Go now. Be as cautious in 
going out as you were on entering. Here is the private 
staircase. \^Opens door l.] [Exit Policemen. 

Oakhurst \liste7iing\. Gone ! and without disturbing any 
one. So far luck has befriended me. He will sleep to- 
night beneath his father's roof. His father ! umph ! would 
the old man recognise him here ? Would he take to his 
heart this drunken outcast, picked from the gutters of the 
street, and brought here by the strong arm of the law? 
Hush ! \A knock without^ Ah ! it is the Colonel : he is 
prompt to the hour. \Opens door cautiously, and admits 
CoL. Starbottle.] 

Starbottle [looking around, a?id overlooking Sandy]. I 
presume the other — er — principal is not yet on the ground ? 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 399 

Oakhurst \inotioning to sofa]. He is ! 

Starbottle [starting as he looks towards sofd\. Ged ! you 
don't mean to say it's all over, without witnesses, without 
my — er — presence ? 

Oakhurst. Pardon me, Col, Starbottle; but, if you 
look again, you will perceive that the gentleman is only 
drunk. 

Starbottle. Eh ? Ged ! not uncommon, sir, not uncom- 
mon ! I remember singular incident at — er — Louisville in 
'47. Old Judge Tollim — know old Judge Tolly ? — Ged ! 
he came to ground drunk, sir ; couldn't stand ! Demn me, 
sir, had to put him into position with kitchen poker down 
his back, and two sections of lightning-rod in his — er — 
trousers, demn me ! Firm, sir, firm, you understand, here 
[striking his breast\ but — here [striking his legs'] — er — er. — 
wobbly ! No, sir ! Intoxication of principal not a bar, sir, 
to personal satisfaction ! [Goes towards sofa with eyeglass.] 
Good Ged ! why, it's Diego ! [Returning stiffly to Oak- 
hurst.] Excuse me, sir, but this is a case in which I 
cannot act. Cannot, sir, — impossible ! absurd ! pre — post 
— er — ous. I recognise in the — er — inebriated menial on 
yonder sofa a person, sir, who having already declined my 
personal challenge, is — er — excluded from the consideration 
of gentlemen. The person who lies there, sir, is Diego, — a 
menial of Don Jose Castro, — alias " Sandy," the vagabond 
of Red Gulch. 

Oakhurst. You have omitted one title, his true one. 
He is Alexander Morton, the son of the master of this 
house. 

Starbottle [starting in bewilderment]. Alexander Morton ! 
[Aside.] Ged ! my first suspicions were correct. Star, you 
have lost the opportunity of making your fortune as a 
scoundrel ; but you have, at a pecuniary sacrifice, preserved 
your honour. 



400 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

Oakhurst. Yes. Hear me, Col. Starbottle. I have 
summoned you here to-night, as I have already intimated, on 
an %ir of honour. I have sought you as my father's legal 
counsel, as a disir*erested witness, as a gentleman of honour. 
The man who lies before you was once my friend and 
partner. I have wronged him doubly. As his partner, I 
ran away with the woman he believed, and still believes, to 
be his wife ; as his friend, I have for a twelvemonth kept 
him from the enjoyment of his home, his patrimony, by a 
shameful deception. I have summoned you to-night to 
witness my confession ; as a lawyer, to arrange those details 
necessary to restore to him his property; as a man of 
honour, to receive from me whatever retribution he dem.ands. 
You will be a witness to our interview. Whatever befalls 
me here, you will explain to Mr. Morton — to Jovita — that I 
accepted it as a man, and did not avoid, here or elsewhere, 
the penalty of my crime. {Folding his arms.'] 

Starbottle. Umph ! the case is, as you say, a delicate 
one, but not — not — pecuHar. No, sir ! . Ged, sir, I remem- 
ber Tom Marshall — know Tom Marshall of Kentucky ? — 
said to me, " Star ! " — always called me Star, — " how in 
blank, sir, can you remember the real nzxne.'s, of your clients?" 
"Why," says I, "Tom," — always called him Tom, — 
*' yesterday I was called to make will — most distinguished 
family of Virginia — as lawyer and gentleman, you under- 
stand, can't mention name. Waited for signature — most 
distinguished name. Ged, sir, man signed Bloggins — Peter 
Bloggins. Fact, demme ! * Mistake,' I said, — ' excitement ; 
exaltation of fever. Non compos. Compose yourself. Bob.' 
— ' Star,' he said, — always called me Star, — ' for forty-seven 
years I have been an impostor ! ' — his very words, sir. ' 1 
am not ' — you understand : ' I a7n Peter Bloggins ! ' " 

Oakhurst. But, my dear Colonel, I — 

Starbottle [loftily]. Say no more, sir ! I accept the— 



Two Me?i of Sandy Bar. 401 

er— position. Let us see ! The gentleman will, on recog- 
nition, probably make a personal attack. You are armed. 
Ah ! no ? Umph ! On reflection, I would not permit him 
to strike a single blow — I would anticipate it. It will pro- 
voke the challenge from him, leaving you, sir, the — er — 
choice of weapons. 

Oakhursf. Hush ! he is moving ! Take your stand here, 
in this alcove. Remember, as a gentleman and a man of 
honour. Col. Starbottle, I trust you not to interfere between 
the injured man and — justice ! \Pushes Col. Starbottle 
into alcove behind couch and approaches Sandy.] 

Sandy [waking slowly and incoherenlly]. Hush ! Silky ! 
Hush 1 Eh ? Oh, hush yourself [Sings.] 

Oh, 'yer's yer Sandy Morton, 
Drink him down ! 

Eh ! Oh ! [Half sits tip on couch.] Eh ! [Looking around 
hi77t.'\ Where the devil am I ? 

Oakhurst [advancing and leaning over Sandy's coucli\. 
In the house of your father, Alexander Mortoa 

Sandy [recoiling in ast07iishnieni\ His voice — John Oak- 
hurst ! What — ah ! [Rises, and rushes towards Oakhurst 
with tiplifted hand.] 

Starbottle [gesticulating in whisper]. A blow ! a single 
blow would be sufficient. 

Sandy [looking at Oakhurst, who regards him calmly]. I 
— eh ! I — eh ! Ha, ha ! I'm glad to see — old pard ! I'm 
glad to see ye ! [Col. Starbottle lifts his ha?id in aniaze- 
ment?\ 

Oakhu7'st [declining his hand]. Do you understand me, 
Sandy Morton ? Listen ! I am John Oakhurst, — the man 
who has deceived your father, who has deceived you. 

Sandy [without heeding his words, but regarding him affec- 
iionately] To think of it — Jack Oakhurst ! It's like him, 

VOL I. 2 C 



402 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

like Jack. He was allers onsartain, the darned little cuss ! 
Jack ! Look at him, will ye, boys ? look at him ! Growed too, 
and dressed to kill, and sittin' in this 'yer house as natril as 
a jaybird ! [Looking arou?id.'\ Natty, ain't it. Jack ? and 
this 'yer's your house — the old man's house — eh ? Why, this 
is — this is where she came. Jack, Jack ! [Eagerly. '\ Tell 
me, pard, — where is she ? 

Starbottle [aside, rubbing his hands']. We shall have it 
now! 

Oakhurst. She has gone, — gone ! But hear me ! She 
had deceived you, as she has me. She has gone, — gone 
with her first husband, Henry Pritchard. 

Sandy [stupefied?^ Gone ! Her first husband ! Pritchard ! 

Oakhurst. Ay ! your wife ! 

Sandy. Oh, damn my wife ! I'm talking of Mary, — Miss 
Mary, — the little schoolma'am. Jack; the little rose of 
Poker Flat. Oh ! I see — ye didn't know her. Jack,— the 
pertiest, sweetest little — 

Oakhurst [turning away coldly^ Ay, ay ! She is here ! 

Sandy [looking after him affectionately\ Look at him, 
boys ! Allers the same, — high-toned, cold, even to his 
pardner ! That's him, — Jack Oakhurst ! But Jack, Jack, 
you're goin' to shake hands, ain't ye? [Extends his hand 
after a pause. Oakhurst takes it gloomily. '\ 

Col. Starbottle [who has been regarding interview with 
visible scorn and disgust, advancing to Oakhurst.] You will 
— er — pardon me if, under the — er — circumstances, I with- 
draw from this — er — disgraceful proceeding. The condon- 
ation, by that man, of two of the most tremendous offences 
to society and to the code, without apology or satisfaction, 
Ged, sir, is — er — er — of itself an insult to the spectator. I 
go, sir— 

Oakhurst. But, Col. Starbottle— 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 403 

Starbottle. Permit me to say, sir, that I hold myself for 
this, sir, responsible, sir, — personally responsible. 

\Exit Starbottle, glancing furiously at Sandy, who 
sinks on sofa laughing. 

Oakhurst [aside]. He will change his mind in half an 
hour. But, in the meantime, time is precious. [Aloud.^ 
Sandy, come ! 

Sandy, [rising with alacrity]. Yes, Jack, I'm ready. 

Oakhurst. We are going [slowly and solemnly] — we are 
going to see your father. 

Sandy [dropping back with bashful embarrassment, and 
struggling to release his arm frofn Oakhurst]. No, Jack ! 
Not just yet, Jack ; in a little while, ole boy ! in about six 
months, or mebbe a year. Jack, not now, not now ! I ain't 
feelin' exactly well, Jack, — I ain't. 

Oakhurst. Nonsense, Sandy ! Consider your duty and 
my honour. 

Sandy [regaining his seat]. That's all very well. Jack; 
but ye see, pard, you've known the old man for nigh on a 
year, and it's twenty-five since I met him. No, Jack ; 
you don't play any ole man on to me to-night, Jack. No, 
you and me'll just drop out for a pasear. Jack, eh? 
[Taking Oakhurst's arm?[ Come ! 

Oakhurst. Impossible ! Hush ! [Listening?^ It is he 
passing through the corridor. [Goes to wing r. atid 
listens.] 

Sandy [crowding hastily behind Oakhurst in alarm]. 
But, I say, Jack ! he won't come in here ? He's goin' to 
bed, you know. Eh ? It ain't right for a man o' his years 
— and he must be goin' on ninety. Jack — to be up like this. 
It ain't healthy. 

Oakhurst. You know him not. He seems to need no 
rest [sadly]. Night after night, long after the servants are 
abed and the house is still. I hear that step slowly pacing 



404 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

the corridor. It is the last sound as I close my eyes, the 
first challenge of the morning. 

Sandy. The ole scound — \checkiftg himself'\ — I mean, 
Jack, the ole man has suthin' on his mind. But, Jack \in 
great alarni], he don't waltz in upon ye, Jack ? He don't 
p'int them feet in 'yer. Jack ? Ye ain't got to put up with 
that, Jack, along o' yer other trials ? 

Oakhurst. He often seeks me here. Ah ! yes — he is 
coming this way now. 

Sandy \in ludicrous terror\ Jack, pard, quick ! hide me 
somewhere, Jack ! 

Oakhurst [opening door R.]. In there, quick! Not a 
sound, as you value your future ! 

\Exit Sandy hurriedly r. 



Scene 2. — The same. Enter door 'k. Old Morton, in 
dressing-gown, with candle. 

Old Morton. Not abed yet, Alexander ? Well, well ! I 
don't blame you, my son : it has been for you a trying, 
trying night. Yes, I see : like me, you are a little nervous 
and wakeful. \_Slowly takes chair, and comfortably composes 
himself?^ 

Oakhurst [aside]. He is in for a midnight gossip. How 
shall I dispose of Sandy ? 

Old Morton. Yes \?neditatively\ — yes, you have over- 
worked lately. Never mind. In a day or two more you 
shall have a vacation, sir, — a vacation ! 

Oakhurst [aside]. He knows not how truly he speaks. 
[Aloud.] Yes, sir, I was still up. I have only just now 
dismissed the policemen. 

Old Morton. Ay ! I heard voices, and saw a light in 
your window. I came to tell you, Alexander, Capper has 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 405 

explained all about — about the decoy ! More ; he has told 
me of your courage and your invaluable assistance. For 
a moment, sir, — I don't mind telling you now in confidence, 
— I doubted _y^« — 

Oakhurst [in feigned deprecation']. Oh, sir ! , 

Old Morton. Only for a moment. You will find, Alex- 
ander, that even that doubt shall have full apology when 
the year of your probation has expired. Besides, sir, I 
know all. 

Oakhurst [starting]. All ! 

Old Morton. Yes, the story about the Duchess and your 
child. You are surprised. Col. Starbottle told me all. 
I forgive you, Alexander, for the sake of your boy. 

Oakhurst. My boy, sir ! 

Old Morton. Yes, your boy. And let me tell you, sir, 
he's a fine young fellow. Looks like you, — looks as you 
did when you were a boy. He's a Morton, too, every inch 
of him, there's no denying that. No, sir. You may have 
changed ; but he — he is the living image of my little Alex- 
ander. He took to me, too, — lifted his little arms, — and 
— and — [Becomes affected, and leans his head in his hands ^ 

Oakhurst [rising]. You are not well, sir. Let me lead 
you to your room. 

Old Morton. No ! It is nothing : a glass of water, 
Alexander ! 

Oakhurst [aside]. He is very pale. The agitation of 
the night has overcome him. [Goes to table r.] A little 
spirits will revive him. [Fours fro?n decanter in glass, and 
returns to Morton.] 

Old Morton [after drinking]. There was spirits in that 
water, Alexander. Five years ago, I vowed at your mother's 
grave to abandon the use of intoxicating liquors. 

Oakhurst. Believe me, sir, my mother will forgive you. 

Old Morton. Doubtless. It has revived me. I' ara 



4o6 Two Men of Safidy Bar. 

getting to be an old man, Aleck. \Holds out his glass half 
unconsciously, atid Oakhurst replenishes it from decanteri\ 
Yes, an old man, Aleck ; but the boy, — ah ! I live again in 
him. The little rascal ! He asked me, Aleck, for a " chaw 
tobacker ! " and wanted to know if I was the " ole duffer." 
Ha, ha ! He did. Ha, ha ! Come, come ! don't be de- 
spondent. I was like you once, damn it, — ahem — it's all 
for the best, my boy, all for the best. I'll take the young 
rascal [«j'/^(?] — damn it, he's already taken me — \aloud\ on 
equal terms. There, Aleck, what do you say ? 

Oakhurst. Really, sir, this forbearance, — ^this kindness 
— \aside\ I see a ray of light. 

Old Morton. Nonsense ! I'll take the boy, I tell you, 
and do well for him — the little rascal ! — as if he were the 
legal heir. But I say, Aleck \laughing\, ha, ha ! — what 
about — ha, ha ! — what about Dona Jovita, eh ? and what 
about Don Jose Castro, eh ? How will the lady like a 
ready-made family, eh? \_Poking Oakhurst in the ribs.~\ 
What will the Don say to the family succession ? Ha, ha ! 

Oakhurst [^proudly]. Really, sir, I care but little. 

Old Morton [aside]. Oh, ho ! I'll sound him. [Alo7id.'] 
Look ye, Alexander, I have given my word to you and Don 
Jose Castro, and I'll keep it. But if you can do any better, 
eh ? — if — eh ? — the schoolma'am's a mighty pretty girl, and 
a bright one, eh, Aleck ? And it's all in the family — eh ? 
And she thinks well of you ; and I will say, for a girl brought 
up as she's been, and knowin' your relations with the 
Duchess and the boy, to say a kind word for ye, Aleck, is 
a good sign, — you follow me, Aleck? — if you think — why, 
old Don Jose might whistle for a son-in-law, eh ? 

Oakhurst [interrupting indignantly]. Sir ! [Aside.] Stop t 
[Aloud.] Do you mean to say, sir, that if I should consent 
to this — suggestion — that, if the lady were willing, you 
would offer no impediment ? 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 407 

Old Morton. Impediment ! my dear boy, you should 
have my blessing. 

Oakhurst. Pardon me a moment. You have in the last 
year, sir, taught me the importance of business formality in 
all the relations of life. Following that idea, the conditions 
of my engagement with Jovita Castro were drawn up with 
your hand. Are you willing to make this recantation as 
formal, this new contract as business-like and valid ? 

Old Morton [eagerly], I am, 

Oakhurst. Then sit here, and write at my dictation. 
[Fointing to table L. Old Morton takes seat at table.'] " In 
view of the evident preference of my son Alexander Morton 
and of certain family interests, I hereby revoke my consent 
to his marriage with the Doiia Jovita Castro, and accord 
him full permission to woo and win his cousin, Miss Mary 
Morris ; promising him the same aid and assistance pre- 
viously offered in his suit with I.iiss Castro." 

Old Morton \signi71g]. Alexander Morton, sen. Theie, 
Aleck ! You have forgotten one legal formality. We ha^e 
no witness. Ha, ha ! 

Oakhurst \significantly]. I will be a sufificient witness. 

Old Morton. Ha, ha ! \Fills glass from decanter, after 
which Oakhurst quietly removes decanter beyond his reach.] 
Very good ! Aleck, I've been thinking of a plan, — I've been 
thinking of retiring from the bank. I'm getting old, and 
my ways are not the popular ways of business here. I've 
been thinking of you, you dog, — of leaving the bank to you, 
— to you, sir, — eh — the day — the day you marry the school- 
ma'am — eh ! I'll stay at home, and take care of the boy — 
eh ! — hie ! The little rascal ! — lifted his arms to me — did, 
Aleck ! by God ! \i7icoherently.] Eh ! 

Oakhurst. Hush ! [Aside.] Sandy will overhear him, 
and appear. 

Old Morton [greatly affected by liquor]. Hush ! eh ! — of 



4o8 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

course — shoo ! shoo ! \The actor will here endeavour to 
reproduce in Old Morton's drunken behaviour, without 
exactly i?nitating him, the general characteristics of his son's 
intoxication.'] Eh ! T say, Aleck, old boy ! what will the 
Don say ? eh ? Ha, ha, ha ! And Jovita, that firebrand, 
how will she — hie — like it, eh ? [Laughs immoderately?^ 

Oakhurst. Hush ! We will be overheard ! The servants, 
sir ! 

Old Morton. Damn the servants! Don't I — hie — pay 
them wages — eh ? 

Oakhurst. Let me lead you to your own room. You 
are nervously excited. A little rest, sir, will do you good. 
\Taking his arm.] 

Old Morton. No shir, no shir, 'm nerrer goin' to bed 
any more. Bed's bad habit ! — hie — drunken habit. Lesh 
stay up all ni, Aleck ! You and me ! Lesh nev'r — go — 
bed any more ! Whar's whisky — eh ? {Staggers to the 
table for decanter as Oakhurst seizes him, struggles up stage, 
and then Old Morton, in struggle, falls helplessly on sofa, 
in same attitude as Sandy was discovered.] 

Enter Sandy cautiously from door l, 

Sandy [to Oakhurst]. Jack ! Eh, Jack — 

Oakhurst. Hush ! Go ! I will follow you in a moment 
[Pushes him back to door l.] 

Sandy [catching sight of Old Morton]. Hallo ! 
What's up ? 

Oakhurst. Nothing. He was overtaken with a sudden 
faintness. He will revive presently : go ! 

Sajidy [hesitating]. I say, Jack, he wasn't taken sick 
along o' me, eh. Jack ? 

Oakhurst. No! no! But go! [pushitig him toward 
door]. 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 409 

Sandy, Hold on ! I am going. But, Jack, Fve got a 
kind of faintness 'yer, too. \Goes to iide-table, and takes up 
decanter.'] And thar's nothin' reaches that faintness like 
whisky. [Fills glass.] 

Old Morton [driinkenly and half-cojisciously from coucJi\. 
Whisky — who shed — whisky — eh ? Eh ! — — gim'me some, 
Aleck — Aleck, my son, — my son ! — my old prodigal — Old 
Proddy, my boy — gim me — whisky — [^/^^^i-] — 

Oh, 'yer's yer good old whisky, 

Drink it down ! 

Eh ? I com — mand you — pass the whisky ! 

[Sandy, at first panicstricken.^ and then remorsefully 

conscious, throws glass down with gesture of fear 

, and loathing. Oakhurst adva?ices to his side 

hurriedly. 

Oakhurst [in hurried whisperl. Give him the whisky, 

quick ! It will keep him quiet. [Is about to take decanter 

when Sandy seizes it : struggle with Oakhurst.] 

Sa?idy [with feeling]. No, no. Jack, no ! [Suddenly with 
gi'eat strength and detertnination breaks from him, ajid throws 
decanter from window.] No, never ! 

Old Morton [struggling drunkenly to his feet]. Eh — who 
sh'd never? [Oakhurst shoves Sandy in room l., and 
follows him, closing door^ Eh! Aleck? [Groping^ Eh! 
where'sh light ? All gone ! [Lapses on sofa again, after an 
ineffectual struggle to get up, and then resumes his old attiiude.\ 

\Change scene quickly?^ 



4IO Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

Scene 3. — Ante-room in Mr. Morton's villa. Front scene. 
Enter Don Jose Castro and Concho, preceded by 
Servant, l. 

Servant. This way, gentlemen. 

Don Jose. Carry this card to Alexander Morton, sen. 

Servant. Beg pardon, sir, but there's only one name 
here, sir [looking at Concho]. 

Don Jose [proudly]. That is my servant, sir. 

[Exit Servant. 

Don Jose [aside]. I don't half like this business. But 
my money locked up in his bank, and my daughter's hand 
bound to his son, demand it. [Aloud.] This is no child's 
play, Concho, you understand, 

Concho. Ah ! I am wise ! Believe me, if I have not 
proofs which shall blanch the cheek of this old man, I am 
a fool, Don Jose ! 

Jie-enter Servant. 

Servant. Mr. Morton, sen., passed a bad night, and has 
left word not to be disturbed this morning. But Mr, 
Morton, jun., will attend you, sir. 

Concho [aside]. So the impostor will face it out. Well, 
let him come. 

Don Jose [to Servant]. I wait his pleasure. 

[Exit Servant. 

Don Jose. You hear, Concho ? You shall face this man. 
I shall repeat to him all you have told me. If you fail 
to make good your charge, on your head rests the con- 
sequences. 

Concho. He will of course deny. He is a desperate 
man : he will perhaps attack me. Eh ! Ah ! [Drawing 
revolver.] 

Donjos'e. Put up your foolish weapon. The sight of 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 411 

the father he has deceived will be more terrible to him than 
the pistol of the spy. 

Enter CoL. Starbottle, a 

Starhottle. Mr, Alexander Morton, jun., will be with you 
in a moment. \Takes attitude by door, puts his hand in his 
breast^ and inflates himself^ 

Concho [to Don Jose aside"]. It is the bullying lawyer. 
They will try to outface us, my patron ; but we shall 
triumph. [A/oud.] He comes, eh ! — Mr. Alexander Morton, 
gentlemen ! I will show you a cheat, an impostor ! 

Enter, in correct, precise morning dress, Sandy Morton. 
There is in his make-up and manner a suggestion of the 
father. 

Concho \recoiling, aside]. Diego ! The real son ! [Aloud, 
furiously.] It is a trick to defeat justice, — eh ! — a miserable 
trick ! But it shall fail, it shall fail ! 

Col. Starbottle. Permit me, a moment, — a single moment. 
[To Concho.] You have — er — er — characterised my intro- 
duction of this — er — gentleman as a "cheat" and an 
"imposture." Are you prepared to deny that this is 
Alexander Morton ? 

Don Jose [astonished, aside]. These Americanos are of 
the devil ! [Aloud and sternly.] Answer him, Concho, I 
command you. 

Coficho [in half-insane rage.] It is Alexander Morton ; but 
it is a trick, — a cowardly trick ! Where is the other im- 
postor, this Mr. John Oakhurst? 

Sandy [advancing with dignity and something of his father'' s 
cold manner]. He will answer for himself when called for. 
[To Don Jos£] You have asked for me, sir: may I 
inquire your business ? 



4 1 2 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

Concho. Eh ! It is a trick, — a trick ! 

Don Jose \to Concho]. Silence, sir ! ^To Sandy, with 
dignity ^^ I know not the meaning of this masquerade. I 
only know that you are not the gentleman hitherto known to 
me as the son of Alexander Morton. I am here, sir, to 
demand my rights as a man of property and a father. I 
have received this morning a cheque from the house of 
Morton & Son for the amount of my deposit with them. 
So far — in view of this complication — it is well. Who 
knows ? Biieno ! But the signature of Morton & Son to 
the cheque is not in the handwriting I have known. Look 
at it, sir. \To Sandy, handing cheque^ 

Sandy [examining cheque\. It is my handwriting, sir^ and 
was signed this morning. Has it been refused ? 

Don Jose. Pardon me, sir. It has not been presented. 
With this doubt in my mind, I preferred to submit it first 
to you. 

Stariottle. A moment, a single moment, sir. While as 
a — er — gentleman and a man of honour, I — er — appreciate 
your motives, permit me to say, sir, as a lawyer, that your 
visit is premature. On the testimony of your own witness, 
the identification of Mr. Alexander Morton, jun., is — er — 
complete ; he has admitted the signature as his own ; you 
have not yet presented the cheque to the bank. 

Don Jose. Pardon me. Col. Starbottle. It is not all. 
\To Sandy.] By a written agreement with Alexander 
Morton, sen., the hand of my daughter is promised to his 
son, who now stands before me, as my former servant, 
dismissed from my service for drunkenness. 

Sandy. That agreement is revoked. 

Don Jose. Revoked ! 

Sajidy \Jianditig paper\. Cast your eyes over that paper. 
At least you will recognise that signature. 

Don Jose [reads]. " In view of the evident preference of 



Tzvo Men of Sandy Bar. 413 

my son Alexander Morton, and of certain family interests, I 
hereby revoke my consent to his marriage with the Doha 
Jovita Castro, and accord him full permission to woo and 
win his cousin, Miss Mary Morris ; promising him the same 
aid and assistance previously offered in his suit with Miss 
Castro. — Alexander Morton, Sen." 

Concho. Ah ! Carrainha ! Do you not see the trick, — 
eh, the conspiracy? It was this man, as Diego, your 
daughter's groom, helped his friend Mr. Oakhurst to the 
heiress. Ah ! you comprehend ? It was an old trick ! 
You shall see ! you shall see ! Ah ! I am wise — I am 
wise ! 

Don Jose [aside]. Could I have been deceived ? But 
no ! This paper that releases h'm gives the impostor no 
claim. 

Sandy [resuming his old easy manner, droppijig his 
formality, and placing his hand on Don Josi's shoulder']. 
Look 'yar, ole man : I didn't allow to ever see ye agin, 
and this 'yer ain't none o' 7ny seekin'. But, since yer 
here, I don't mind tellin' ye that but for me that gal of 
yours would have run away a year ago, and married an 
unknown lover. And I don't mind adding, that, hed I 
known that unknown lover was my friend John Oakhurstj 
I'd have helped her to do it [Goijig.] Good-morning, 
Don Jose. 

Do7i Jose. Insolent ! I shall expect an account for this 
from your — father, sir. 

Sandy. Adios, Don Jose. [Exit c. 

Concho. It is a trick — I told you. Ah ! I am wise ! 
[Going to Don Jose.] 

Don Jose [throwi?ig him off]. Fool ! [Exit Don 
Jose.] 

Concho [infuriated]. Eh ! Fool yourself — dotard ! No 
matter! I will expose all — ah! I will see Jovita; — I will 



414 T^'^o Men of Sandy Bar, 

revenge myself on this impostor ! \Is about to follow, when 
Col. Starbottle leaves his position by the door and touches 
Concho on the shoulder P\ 

Starbottle. Excuse me. 

Concho. Eh ? 

Starbottle. You have forgotten something. 

Concho. Something ? 

Starbottle. An apology, sir. You were good enough to 
express — er — incredulity — when I presented Mr. Morton : 
you were kyind enough to characterise the conduct of my 
— er — principal by — an epithet. You have alluded to me, 
sir, — ME — 

Concho \w7'athfiilly\. Bully ! \Aside^ I have heard 
that this pom;poso, this braggart, is a Yankee trick too ; that 
he has the front of a lion, the liver of the chicken. [Alotid.] 
Yes, I have said, you hear I have said, I, Concho \striking 
his breast], have said you are a — bully ! 

Starbottle [coolly.'] Then you are prepared to give me 
satisfaction, sir, — personal satisfaction ? 

Concho [raging]. Yes, sir, now — you understand, now 
[taking out pistol], anywhere, here ! Yes, here ! Ah ! you 
start, — yes, here and now ! Face to face, you understand, 
without seconds, — face to face. So ! [Presenting pistol^ 

Starbottle [quietly]. Permit me to — er — apologise — ■ 

Concho. Ah ! It is too late ! 

Starbottle [interrupti7ig]. Excuse me, but I feared you 
would not honour me so completely and satisfactorily. 
Ged, sir, I begin to respect you ! I accede to all your 
propositions of time and position. The pistol you hold in 
your hand is a derringer, I presume, loaded. Ah — er — I 
am right. The one I now produce [showing pistol] is — er 
— as you will perceive, the same size and pattern, and — er 
— unloaded. We will place them both, so, under the cloth 
of this table. You shall draw one pistol, I will take the 



Two Men of Sandy Bar, 415 

other. I will put that clock at ten minutes to nine, when 
we will take our positions across this table ; as you — er — ■ 
happily express it, "face to face." As the clock strikes the 
hour, we will fire on the second stroke. 

Concho \_aside\. It is a trick — a Yankee trick ! \Aloud.'\ 
I am ready. Now — at once ! 

Siarbottle \_gravely\. Permit me, sir, to thank you. Your 
conduct, sir, reminds me of singular incident — 

Concho \angrily interrupting\. Come, come ! It is no 
child's-play. We have too much of this talk, eh ! It is 
action, eh, you comprehend, — action. 

[Starbottle places pistols tinder the cloth, and sets 
clock. Concho draws pistol from cloth; Star- 
bottle takes remaining pistol. Both jnen asstc??te 
position^ presenting their weapons, Starbottle 
pompously but seriously., Concho angrily and 
nervously. 
Starbottle \after a patise]. One moment, a single 
moment — 

Concho. Ah, a trick ! Coward ! you cannot destroy my 
aim. 

Starbottle. I overlook the — er — epithet. I wished only 
to ask, if you should be — er — unfortunate, if there was any- 
thing I could say to your — er — friends. 

Concho. You cannot make the fool of me, coward. 
No! 

Starbottle. My object was only precautionary. Owing 
to the position in which you— er — persist in holding your 
weapon, in a line with my right eye, I perceive that a ray 
of light enters the nipple, and — er — illuminates the barrel 
I judge from this, that you have been unfortunate enough 
to draw the — er — er — unloaded pistol. 

Concho \tremiilously lowering 7veapori\. Eh ! Ah ! This 
is murder! \props pistol.\ Murder! — eh — helpl [retreating^, 



41 6 Two Men of Sandy Bar, 

help ! \Exit hurriedly door c, as clock strikes. CoL. Star- 
bottle lozticrs his pistol, a?id moves with great pomposity to 
the other side of the table, taking ztp pistol.'] 

Starhottle \_examifiing pistol]. Ah ! \Liftsit, and discharges 
it.] It seems that I am mistaken. [Going.] The pistol 
was — er — loaded ! [Exit. 



Scene 4. — Frofti scene. Room in villa. Enter Miss Mary 
and JoviTA. 

Miss Mary. I tell you, you are Avrong. You are not 
only misunderstanding your lover, which is a woman's privi- 
lege ; but you are abusing my cousin, which, as his relative, 
I won't put up with. 

Jovita [passionately]. But hear me, Miss Mary. It is a 
year since we were betrothed ; and such a betrothal ! Why, 
I was signed, sealed, and delivered to him, on conditions, 
as if I were a part of the rancho ; and the very night, too, I 
had engaged to run away with him ! And during that year 
I have seen the gentleman twice, — yes, twice ! 

Miss Mary. But he has written ? 

Jovita. Mother of God ! Yes, — letters delivered by my 
father, sent to his care, read by him first, of course ; letters 
hoping that I was well, and obeying my father's commands ; 
letters assuring me of his unaltered devotion ; letters that, 
compared with the ones he used to hide in the confessional 
of the ruined mission church, were as ice to fire, were as that 
snowflower you value so much, Mary, to this mariposa 
blossom I wear in my hair. And then to think that this man 
— this John Oakhurst, as I knew him ; this man who used 
to ride twenty miles for a smile from me on the church porch ; 
this Don Juan who leaped that garden wall (fifteen feet, 
Mary, if it is an inch), and made old Concho his stepping 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 417 

stone ; this man, who daily perilled death for my sake — is 
changed into this formal, methodical man of business — is — - 
is — I tell you there's a woman at the bottom of it ! I know 
it sure ! 

Miss Mary [aside]. How can I tell her about the 
Duchess ? I won't ! [Aloud.] But listen, my dear Jovita. 
You know he is under probation for you, Jovita. All 
this is for you. His father is cold, methodical, unsym- 
pathetic. Ife looks only to his bond with this son, — this son 
that he treats, even in matters of the heart, as a business 
partner. Remember, on his complete reformation and 
subjection to his father's will depends your hand. Re- 
member the agreement ! 

Jovita. The agreement ; yes ! It is the agreement, 
always the agreement. May the devil fly away with the 
agreement ! Look you, Miss Mary, I, Dona Jovita, didn't 
fall in love with an agreement : it was with a man ! Why, 
I might have married a dozen agreements — yes, of a shorter 
limitation than this ! [Crossing.] 

Miss Mary. Yes. But what if your lover had failed to 
keep those promises by which he was to gain your hand ? 
what if he were si man incapable of self-control ? what if he 
were — a — a — drunkard ! 

Jovita [musing]. A drunkard ! [Aside.] There was Diego, 
he was a drunkard; but he was faithless. [Aloud.] You 
mean, a weak, faithless drunkard ? 

Miss Mary. No ! [Sadly.] Faithless only to himself, 
but devoted — yes, devoted to you. 

Jovita. Miss Mary, I have found that one big vice in a 
man is apt to keep out a great many smaller ones. 

Miss Mary. Yes ; but if he were a slave to liquor ? 

Jovita. My dear, I should try to change his mistress. 
Oh, give me a man that is capable of a devotion to anything, 
rather than a cold, calculating average of all the virtues I 

VOL. I. 2D 



41 8 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

Miss Mary [aside]. I, who aspire to be her teachei, am 
only her pupil. [Aloud/] But what if, in this very drunken- 
ness, this recklessness, he had once loved and worshipped 
another woman ? What if you discovered all this after — 
after — he had won your heart ? 

Jovita. I should adore him ! Ah, Miss Mary ! love 
differs from all the other contagious diseases ; the last time 
a man is exposed to it, he takes it most readily, and has it 
the worst ! But you, you, you cannot S57mpathise with. me. 
You have some lover, the ideal of the virtues ; some man as 
correct, as well regulated, as calm as — yourself; some one 
who addresses you in the fixed morality and severe penman- 
ship of the copy-books. He will never precipitate himself 
over a garden wall or through a window. Your Jacob will 
wait for you through seven years, and receive you from the 
hands of your cousin and guardian — as a reward of merit ! 
No, you could not love a vagabond. 

Miss Mary [very slowly and quietly]. No ? 

Jovita. No ! [Passionately^ You are good : No, it is 
impossible ! Forgive me. Miss Mary : a better girl than 
I am. But think of me ! A year ago my lover leaped a 
wall at midnight to fly with me : to-day, the day that gives 
me to him, he writes a few cold lines saying that he has 
business, business — you understand — business, and that he 
shall not see me until we meet in the presence of — of 
— of — our fathers. 

Miss Mary. Yes ; but you will see him at least, perhaps 
alone. Listen ! it is no formal meeting, but one of festivity. 
My guardian has told me, in his quaint scriptural way, it is 
the killing of the fatted calf over his long-lost prodigal. 
Have patience, little one. Ah ! Jovita, we are of a different 
race, but we are of one sex ; and as a woman I know how 
to accept another woman's abuse of her lover. Come, 
come. [Exeunt Miss Mary and Jovita. 



Two Men of Sandy Bar, 419 



Scene 5. — The drawwg-room of Mr. Morton's villa. 
Large open arch in centre, leading to veranda, looking on 
distant view of San Francisco ; richly furnished, — sofas, 
arm-chairs, and tete-h-tete. Enter CoL. Starbottle c, 
carrying louquet, preceded by Servant bowing. 

Starbottle. Take my kyard to Miss Morris. \Exit 
Servant.] 

Starbottle. Star ! this is the momentous epoch of your 
life ! It is a moment for which you — are — I may say alone 
responsible, — personally responsible ! She will be naturally 
gratified by the — er — flowers. She will at once recognise 
this bouquet as a delicate souvenir of Red Gulch, and will 
appreciate your recollection. And the fact, the crushing 
fact, that you have overlooked the — er — ungentlemanly 
conduct of her oivn cousin Sandy, the real Alexander 
Morton, that you have — er — assisted to restore the ex-vaqiiero 
to his rights, will — er — er — at once open the door to — er — • 
mutual confidence and — er — a continuance of that — er — 
prepossession I have already noticed. Ahem ! here she is. 



Enter Miss Mary in full dress. 

Miss Mary. You are early. Col. Starbottle. This 
promptitude does honour to our poor occasion. 

Col. Sta?'bottle. Ged, Miss Mary, promptness with a lady 
and an adversary is the first duty of — er — gentleman. I 
wished that — er — the morning dew might still be — er — fresh 
in these flowers. I gathered them myself \fs-esejifing bouquet'\ 
at — er — flower-stand in the — er — California market. 

Miss Mary [aside]. Flowers ! I needed no such reminder 
of poor Sandy. [Aloud.] I thank you, Colonel. 



420 Two Men of Sandy Bar, 

Starhottle. Ged, ma'am, I am repaid doubly. Your 
conduct, Miss Mary, reminds me of little incident that 
occurred at Richmond in '53. Dinner party — came early 
— but obliged to go — as now — on important business, 
before dessert — before dessert. Lady sat next to me — 
beautiful woman — excuse me if I don't mention names — 
said to me, "Star," — always called me Star, — "Star, you 
remind me of the month of May." " Ged, madam," I 
said, "delighted, proud; but why?" "Because," she 
said, "you come in with the — er — oysters." No! Ged, 
pardon me — ridiculous mistake ! I mean — er — " you come 
in with the — er — flowers, and go before the — er — fruits." 

Miss Mary. Ah, Colonel ! I appreciate her dis- 
appointment. Let us hope, however, that some day you 
may find that happy woman who will be able to keep you 
through the whole dinner and the whole season, until 
December and the ices ! 

Starhottle. Ged ! excellent ! capital ! \seriously^ Miss 
Mary [suddenly inflating his chest, striking attitude, and 
gazing on Miss Mary with languishing eyes]. There is — 
er — such a woman ! 

Miss Mary \aside\. What can he mean ? 

Starhottle \taking seat heside her\ Allow me, Miss Mary, 
a few moments of confidential — er — confidential disclosure. 
To-day is, as you are aware, the day on which, according 
to — er — agreement between parties, my friend and client 
Mr. Morton, sen., formally accepts his prodigal son. It is 
my — er — duty to state that — er — the gentleman who has for 
the past year occupied that position has behaved with great 
discretion, and — er — fulfilled his part of the — er — agreement 
But it would — er — appear that there has been a — er — slight 
delusion regarding the identity of that prodigal, — a delusion 
shared by all the parties except, perhaps, myself. I have 
to prepare you for a shock. The gentleman whom you 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 421 

have recently known as Alexander Morton, jun., is not the 
prodigal son ; is not your — er — cousin ; is, in fact, no 
relation to you. Prepare yourself, Miss Mary, for a little 
disappointment, — for — er — degradation, "'he genuine son 
has been — er — discovered in the person of — er — low menial 
— er — ^vagabond, — "Sandy," the — er — outcast of Red 
Gulch ! 

Miss Mary \rising in astonishment]. Sandy! Then he 
was right. \Aside.'\ The child is his ! and that woman — 

Starbottle. Compose yourself, Miss Mary. I know the 
— er — effect of — er — revelation like this upon — er — proud 
and aristocratic nature. Ged ! my own, I assure you, beats 
in — er — responsive indignation. You can never consent to 
remain beneath this roof, and — er — receive a — er vagabond 
and — er — menial on equal terms. The — er — necessities of 
my — er — profession may — er — compel me ; but you -er — 
never ! Holding myself — er — er — responsible for having 
introduced you here, it is my — er — duty to provide you 
with — another home ! It is my — er — duty to protect — 

Miss Mary [aside]. Sandy here, and beneath this roof! 
Why has he not sought me ? Ah ! I know too well : he 
dare not face me with his child I 

Staj'iottle \_aside\. She turns away ! it is maiden coyness. 
[Aloud.] If, Miss Mary, the — er — devotion of a lifetime ; if 
the — er — chivalrous and respectful adoration of a man — er 
— whose record is — er — not unknown in the Court of 
Honour [dropping on one knee with excessive gallantry] ; if 
the — er — measure — 

Miss Mary [oblivions of Col. Starbottle]. I will — I 
fmist see him ! Ah ! [looking l.] he is coming ! 

Enter Sandy. 

Starbottle [rising with great readiness a?id tact]. I have 
found it [presenting flower]. It had fallen beneath the sofa. 



42 2 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

Sandy \to Miss Mary, stopping short in embarrassmenf\, 
I did not know you — I — I — thought there was no one 
here. 

Miss Mary \to Starbottle]. May I ask you to excuse 
me for a moment ? I have a few words to say to— to my 
cousiti ! 

[Starbottle bows gallantly to Miss Mary, and 
stiffly to Sandy, and exit r. A long pause. Miss 
Mary remains seated pulling flowers, Sandy 
remains standing by wing foolish and embarrassed- 
Business. 

Miss Mary [impatiently'^. Well ? 

Sandy [slowly']. I axes your pardon, miss ; but you told 
that gentleman you had a few words — to say to me. 

Miss 3:1 ary [passionately, aside]. Fool ! [Aloud.] I had ; 
but I am waiting to first answer your inquiries about your— 
your — child. I have fulfilled my trust, sir. 

Sandy. You have, Miss Mary, and I thank you. 

Miss Mary. I might perhaps have expected that this 
revelation of our kinship would have come from other lips 
than a stranger's; but — no matter ! I wish you joy, sir, of your 
heritage. [Goi7ig?\^ You have found a home, sir, at last, for 
yourself and — and — your child. Good day, sir. 

Sandy. Miss Mary ! 

Miss Mary. I must make ready to receive your father's 
guests. It is his orders : I am only his poor relation. 
Good-bye, sir. [Exi^, l. 

Sa7idy [watching her]. She is gone ! — gone ! No ! She 
has dropped on the sofa in the ante-room, and is crying. 
Crying ! I promised Jack I wouldn't speak until the time 
came. I'll go back. [Hesitating and looking towards l.] 
Poor girl ! how she must hate me ! I might just say a word, 
one word to thank her for her kindness to Johnny, — only 
one word, and then go away. I — I — can keep from liquor. 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 423 

I swore I would to Jack, that night I saw the old man — 
drunk, — and I have. But — I can't keep — from — her ! No 
— damn it ! \Going toivard l,] No ! — I'll go ! \Exit l. 



Enter hurriedly and excitedly Jovita r., followed by 

Manuela. 

Jovita. Where is she ? Where is he ? — the traitor ! 

Manuela \entreati7igly\ Compose yourself. Dona Jovita, 
for the love of God ! This is madness : believe me, there 
is some mistake. It is some trick of an enemy, — of that 
ingrate, that coyote, Concho, who hates the Don Alexandro. 
Jovita. A trick ! Call you this a trick ? Look at this 
paper, put into my hands by my father a moment ago. 
Read it. Ah ! listen. \ReadsP\ " In view of the evident 
preference of my son, Alexander Morton, I hereby revoke 
my consent to his marriage with the Dona Jovita Castro, 
and accord him full permission to woo and win his cousin, 
Miss Mary Morris ! " Call you this a trick, eh ? No, it is 
their perfidy ! 'This is why she was brought here on the 
eve of my betrothal. This accounts for his silence, his 
absence. Oh, I shall go mad ! 

Manuela. Compose yourself, miss. If I am not de- 
ceived, there is one here who will aid us, — who will expose 
this deceit. Listen ! an hour ago,- as I passed through the 
hall, I saw Diego, our old Diego, — your friend and con- 
fidant, Diego. 

Jovita. The drunkard — the faithless Diego ! 

Manuela. Never^ Miss Jovita ; not drunken ! For, as 
he passed before me, he was as straight, as upright, as fine 
as your lover. Come, miss, we will seek him. 

Jovita. Never ! He too is a traitor. 

Manuela. Believe me, no ! Come, Miss Jovita. {Look- 
ing toward l.] See, he is there. Some one is with him. 



424 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

Jovita [looking]. You are right ; and it is she — s/ie, Miss 
Mary ! What ? he is kissing her hand ! and she — she, the 
double traitress — drops her head upon his shoulder ! Oh, 
this is infamy ! 

Manuela. Hush ! Some one is coming. The guests 
are arriving. They must not see you thus. This way, 
Miss Jovita, — this way. After a little, a little, the mystery 
will be explained. \Tahing Jovita's hand, and leading 
her R.] 

Jovita \_going\. And this was the correct schoolmistress, 
the preceptress, and example of all the virtues ! ha ! 
\laughing hysterically] ha ! 

\Exeuni Jovita and Manuela. 



Scene 6. — The same. JEnter S'ERVA'Nr ; oj^ens folding-doors 
c, revealing veranda, and view of dis'ant city beyond. 
Stage, fog effect from without. Enter Starbottle and 
Oakiiurst r., in full eveniiig dress. 

Starbottle \walking towards veranda]. A foggy evening 
for our anniversary. 

Oakhtirst. Yes. [Aside.] It was such a night as this I 
first stepped into Sandy's place, I first met the old man. 
Well, it will be soon over. [AloJid.] You have the papers 
and transfers all ready ? 

Starbottle. In my — er — pocket. Mr. Morton, sen., 
should be here to receive his guests. 

Oakhurst. He will be here presently ; until then the 
duty devolves on me. He has secluded himself even from 
me ! [Aside.] Perhaps it is in very shame for his recent 
weakness. 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 425 

Enter Servant. 

Servant Don Jose Castro, Miss Castro, and Miss 
Morris. 

Enter Don Jos^ with Jovita and Miss Mary on either arm. 
All for7tiaUy salute Mr. Oakhurst, except Miss Jovita, 
who turns coldly away, taking seat remotely on sofa. Col. 
Starbottle gallantly approaches Miss Mary, and takes 
seat beside her. 

Oakhurst \aside\ They are here to see my punishment. 
There is no sympathy even in her eyes. 

Enter Servant. 

Servant, Mr. Concepcion Garcia and Mr. Capper. 
Concho [approaching Oakhurst, rubbing his hands']. I 
wish you joy, Mr. Alexander Morton ! 

Oakhurst \excitedly, aside']. Shall I throw him from the 
window ? The dog ! — even he ! 

Capper \approaching Mr. Oakhurst]. You have done 
well. Be bold. / will see you through. As for that man 
[pointing to Concho], leave him to t?ie / 

[Zays his hand on Concho's shoulder, and leads him 

to sofa R. Oakhurst takes seat in chair l. as 

Sandy enters quietly from door l., and stands 

leaning upon his chair. 

Starbottle \rising\. Ladies and gentlemen, we are waiting 

only for the presence of Mr. Alexander Morton, sen. I 

regret to say that for the last twenty-four hours he has 

been — er — exceedingly preoccupied with the momentous 

cares of the — er — occasion. You who know the austere 

habits of my friend and — er — client will probably understand 

that he may be at this very moment engaged in prayerful 



426 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

and Christian meditation, invoking the Throne of Grace, 
previous to the solemn duties of — er — er — to-night. 

Enter Servant. 
Servant Mr. Alexander Morton, sen. 

Enter Old Morton, drunk, in evening costume, cravat awry, 
coat half buttoned tip, and half surly, half idiotic manner. 
All rise in astonishment. Sandy starts forward. Oak- 
hurst pulls him back. 

Morton [thickly]. Don't rish ! Don't rish ! We'll all 
sit down ! How do you do, sir ? I wish ye well, miss. 
[Goes around and laboriously shakes hands with everybody?^ 
Now lesh all take a drink ! lesh you take a drink, and you 
take a drink, and you take a drink ! 

Starbottle. Permit me, ladies and gentlemen, to — er — 
explain: our friend is — er — evidently labouring under — er 
— er — accident of hospitality ! In a moment he will be 
himself. 

Old Morto7i. Hush up ! Dry up — yourself — old turkey- 
cock ! Eh ! 

Sandy [despairingly]. He will not understand us ! [To 
Starbottle.] He will not know me ! What is to be 
done? 

Old Morton. Give me some whishky. Lesh all take a 
drink ! [Enter Servant with decanter and glasses^ 

Old Morton [starting forward]. Lesh all take a drink ! 

Sandy. Stop ! 

Old Morton [recovering himself slightly]. Who says stop ? 
Who dares countermand my orderish ? 

Concho [coming forward]. Who ? I will tell you : eh ! 
eh ! Diego — dismissed from the rancho of Don Jose for 
drunkenness ! Sandy— the vagabond of Red Gulch ! 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 427 

Sandy [passionately seizing Old Morton's arnil. ^^^1 
Diego — Sandy — the outcast — but, God help me ! no longer 
the drunkard ! I forbid you to touch that glass ! — I, your 
son, Alexander Morton ! Yes, look at me, father : I, with 
drunkenness in my blood, planted by you, fostered by you 
— I whom you sought to save — I — I, stand here to save 
you ! Go ! [To Servant.] Go ! While he is thus, I — /, 
am master here ! 

Old Morton [cowed and frightenedl. That voice ! [Pass- 
ing his hand over his forehead.'] Am I dreaming ? Aleck, 
where are you ? Alexander, speak, I command you : is this 
the truth ? • 

Oakhurst [slowly]. It is ! 

Starbottle. One moment — a single moment : permit me 
to — er — er — explain. The gentleman who has just — er — 
dismissed the refreshment is, to the best of my legal know- 
ledge, your son. The gentleman who for the past year has 
so admirably filled the functions of that office is — er — pre- 
pared to admit this. The proofs are — er — conclusive. It 
is with the — er — intention of offering them, and — er — 
returning your lawful heir, that we — er — are here to-night. 

Old Morton [rising to his feet]. And I renounce you 
both ! Out of my house, out of my sight, out of my heart, 
for ever ! Go ! liars, swindlers, confederates ! Drunk — 
Oakhurst [retiring slotvly with Sandy]. We are going, sir \ 
Old Morton. Go ! open the doors there wide, wide 
enough for such a breadth of infamy ! Do you hear me ? 
/ am master here ! 

[Stands erect, as Oakhurst and Sandy, hand in 
hand, slowly retreat hacMvard to centre, — then 
suddenly utters a cry and falls heavily on sofa. 
Both pause. Oakhurst remains quiet and 
motionless ; Sandy, after a momenfs hesitation, 
rushes forward, and falls at his feet. 



428 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

Sandy. Father, forgive me ! 

Old Morton [ptittmg his hand round Sandy's neck, and 
motioning him to door]. Go ! both of you, both of you ! 
[Resisting Sandy's attempt to rise.] Did you hear me? 
Go! 

Starbottle. Permit me to explain. Your conduct, Mr. 
Morton, reminds me of sing'lar incident in '47 — 

Old Morton. Silence ! 

Oakhurst. One word, Mr. Morton ! Shamed and dis- 
graced as I am, I leave this roof more gladly than I entered 
it How I came here, you best know. How I yielded 
madly to the temptation, the promise of a better life ; how I 
fell, through the hope of reformation, — no one should know 
better than you, sir, the reformer. I do not ask your pardon. 
You know that I did my duty to you as your presumed son. 
Your real son will bear witness that, from the hour I knew 
of his existence, I did my duty equally to him. Col. Star- 
bottle has all the legal transfers and papers necessary to 
make the restoration of your son — the integrity of your 
business name — complete. I take nothing out of this life 
that I did not bring in it, — except my self-respect ! I go — 
as I came — alone ! 

Jovita [rushing towards hif?i\. No ! no ! You shall take 
me ! I have wronged you, Jack, cruelly ; I have doubted 
you ; but you shall not go alone. I care not for this con- 
tract ! You are more to me, by your own right, Jack, than 
by any kinship with such as these ! 

Oakhurst\raising her gently]. I thank you, darhng. But 
it is too late now. To be more worthy of you, to mnyouy 
I waived the title I had to you in my own manhood, to 
borrow another's more legal claim. I, who would not win 
you as a gambler, cannot make you now the wife of a 
convicted impostor. No ! Hear me, darling ! do not make 
my disgrace greater than it is. In the years to come, Jovita, 



Two Men of Sandy Bar. 429 

think of me as one who loved you well enough to go through 
shame to win you, but too well to ask you to share with 
him that shame. Farewell, darling, farewell ! \Releases 
Jmiiself from Jovita's artJis, tvJio falls beside him.'] 

Concho \rubbing his ha?tds, and standing before him]. Oho! 
Mr. John Oakhurst — eh — was it for this, eh — you leaped 
the garden wall, eh ? was it for this you struck me down, 
eh ? You are not wise, eh ? You should have run away 
with the Dona when you could — ah, ah, impostor ! 

Sandy [leaping to his feet]. Jack, you shall not go ! I 
will go with you ! 

Oakhurst No ! Your place is there [pointing to Old 
Morton, whose head has sunk drunke^ily on his breast.] 
Heed not this man ; his tongue carries only the borrowed 
lash of his master. 

Concho. Eh ! you are bold now — bold ; but I said I 
would have revenge — ah, revenge ! 

Sandy [rushing towards him]. Coward ! 

Don Jos'e. Hold your hand, sir ! Hold ! I allow no 
one to correct my menials but myself. Concho, order my 
carriage ! 

Co?icho. It is ready, sir. 

DonJosL Then lead the way to it, for my daughter and 
her husband, John Oakhurst. Good night, Mr. Morton. 
I can sympathise with you ; for we have both found a son, 
I am willing to exchange my dismissed servant for your 
dismissed partner. 

Starbottle [advancing]. Ged, sir, I respect you! Ged, 
sir, permit me^ sir, to grasp that honourable hand ! 

Old Morton [excitedly]. He is right, my partner ! What 
have I done ! The house of Morton & Son dissolved. 
The man known as my partner — a fugitive ! No, Alex- 
ander ! 

Starbottle. One moment — a single moment ! As a 



430 Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

lawyer, permit me to say, sir, that the whole complication 
may be settled, sir, by the — er — addition of — er — single 
letter ! The house of Morton & Son shall hereafter read 
Morton & Sons. The papers for the legal adoption of Mr. 
Oakhurst are — er — in my pocket. 

Old Morion \ifiore soberly]. Have it your own way, sir ! 
Morton & Sons be it. Hark ye, Don Jos^ ! We are 
equal at last. But — hark ye, Aleck ! How about the 
boy, eh ? — my grandson, eh ? Is this one of the sons by 
adoption ? 

Sandy \embarrassedly'\. It is my own, sir. 

Capper [advancing]. He can with safety claim it; for 
the mother is on her way to Australia with her husband. 
* Old Morton. And the schoolma'am, eh ? 

Miss Mary. She will claim the usual year of probation 
for your prodigal, and then — 

Sandy. God bless ye, Miss Mary ! 

Old Morion. I am in a dream ! But the world— my 
friends — my patrons — how can I explain ? 

Starbottle. I will — er — explain. [Advancing slowly to 
front — to audience?^ One moment — er — a single moment! 
If anything that has — er — transpired this evening — might 
seem to you, ladies and gentlemen — er — morally or — er — 
legally — or honourably to require — er — apology or — er — 
explanation! — permit me to say — that I, Col. Culpepper 
Starbottle, hold myself responsible — er — personally re- 
sponsible. 

Capper. Concho. 

Old Morton. Sandy. Miss Mary. Don Josi. Jovita. Oakhurst. 

Col, Starbottle. 

[Curtain.] 



Catiet (Btt^. 



CANTO I. 

I. 

Act first, scene first. A study. Of a kind 

Half cell, half salon, opulent yet grave ; 
Rare books, low shelved, yet far above the mind 

Of common man to compass or to crave ; 
Some slight relief of pamphlets that inclined 

The soul at first to trifling, till dismayed 
By text and title, it drew back resigned, 

Nor cared with levity to vex a shade. 

That to itself such perfect concord made. 

II. 

Some thoughts like these perplexed the patriot brain 
Of Jones — Lawgiver to the Commonwealth, 

As on the threshold of this chaste domain 

He paused expectant, and looked up in stealth 

To darkened canvases that frowned amain, 
With stern-eyed Puritans, who first began 

To spread their roots in " Georgius Primus' ^^ reign, 
Nor dropped till now, obedient to some plan, 
Their century fruit — the perfect Boston maa 

III. 

Somewhere within that Russia-scented gloom 
A voice catarrhal thrilled the Member's ear ; 



432 Cadet Grey. 

" Brief is our business, Jones. Look round this 
room ! 

Regard yon portraits ! Read their meaning clear ! 
These much proclaim * my ' station. I presume 

You are our Congressman, before whose wit 
And sober judgment shall the youth appear 

Who for West Point is deemed most just and fit 

To serve his country and to honour it." 

IV, 

** Such is my son ! Elsewhere perhaps 'twere wise 

Trial competitive should guide your choice. 
There are some people I can well surmise 

Themselves must show their merits. History's 
voice 
Spares me that trouble, all desert that lies 

In yonder ancestor of Queen Anne's day, 
Or yon grave Governor — is all my boy's, 

Reverts to him ; entailed, as one might say ; 

In brief, result in Winthrop Adams Grey ! " 

V. 

He turned and laid his well-bred hand, and smiled, 
On the cropped head of one who stood beside. 

Ah me ! in sooth it was no ruddy child, 

Nor brawny youth that thrilled the father's pride — 

'Twas but a Mind that somehow had beguiled 
From soulless Matter processes that served 

For speech and motion and digestion mild, 
Content if all one moral purpose nerved. 
Nor recked thereby its spine were somewhat curved. 

VI. 

He was scarce eighteen. Yet ere he was eight 
He had despoiled the classics ; much he knew 



Cadet Grey. 433 

Of Sanscrit ; not that he placed undue weight 
On this, but that it helped him with Hebrew, 

His favourite tongue. He learned, alas ! too late, 
One can't begin too early — would regret 

That boyish whim to ascertain the state 
Of Venus' atmosphere made him forget 
That philologic goal on which his soul was set. 

VII. 

He too had travelled ; at the age of ten 
Found Paris empty, dull except for art 

And accent. " Mabille " with its glories then 
Less than Egyptian ^^Almees " touched a heart 

Nothing if not pure classic. If some men 
Thought him a prig, it vexed not his conceit, 

But moved his pity, and ofttimes his pen, 

The better to instruct them, through some sheet 
Published in Boston, and signed " Beacon Street." 

VIII. 

From premises so plain the blind could see 
But one deduction, and it came next day. 

** In times like these, the very name of G. 
Speaks volumes," wrote the Honourable J. 

"Enclosed please find appointment." Presently 
Came a reception to which Harvard lent 

Fourteen professors, and, to give '' esprii" 
The Liberal Club some eighteen ladies sent. 
Five that spoke Greek, and thirteen sentiment. 

IX. 

Four poets came who loved each others' song, 
And two philosophers, who thought that they 
VOL. I. a E 



434 Cadet Grey. 

Were in most things impractical and wrong j 
And two Reformers, each in his own way 

Peculiar — one who had waxed strong 

On herbs and water, and such simple fare ; 

Two foreign lions, " Ram See " and " Chy Long," 
And several artists claimed attention there, 
Based on the fact they had been snubbed else 
where. 

With this endorsement nothing -now remained 

But counsel, God speed, and some calm adieux ; 
No foolish tear the father's eyelash stained, 

And Winthrop's cheek as guiltless shone of dew. 
A slight publicity, such as obtained 

In classic Rome, these few last hours attended. 
The day arrived, the train and depot gained. 

The mayor's own presence this last act com 
mended ; 

The train moved off, and here the first act ended. 



CANTO II 

I. 

Where West Point crouches, and with lifted shield 
Turns the whole river eastward through the pass ; 

Whose jutting crags, half silver, stand revealed 
Like bossy bucklers of Leonidas ; 

Where buttressed low against the storms that wield 
Their summer lightnings where her eaglets' swarm. 

By Freedom's cradle Nature's self has steeled 
Her heart, like Winkelried, and to that storm 
Of levelled lances bares her bosom warm. 



Cadet Grey. 435 

II. 
But not to-night. The air and woods are still, 

The faintest rustle in the trees below, 
The lowest tremor from the mountain rill, 

Come to the ear as but the trailing flow 
Of spirit robes that walk unseen the hill ; 

The moon low sailing o'er the upland farm, 
The moon low sailing where the waters fill 

The lozenge lake, beside the banks of balm, 

Gleams like a chevron on the river's arm. 

III. 

AH space breathes languor; from the hill-top high. 
Where Putnam's bastion crumbles in the past, 

To swooning depths where drowsy cannon lie 

And wide-mouthed mortars gape in slumbers vast ; 

Stroke upon stroke, the far oars glance and die 
On the hushed bosom of the sleeping stream ; 

Bright for one moment drifts a white sail by, 
Bright for one moment shows a bayonet gleam 
Far on the level plain, then passes as a dream. 

IV. 

Soft down the line of darkened battlements, 
Bright on each lattice of the barrack walls, 

Where the low arching sallyport indents, 

Seen through its gloom beyond, the moonbeam 
falls. 

All is repose save where the camping tents 

Mock the white gravestones farther on, where sound 

No morning guns for '■'•reveille,^'' nor whence 

No drum-beat calls retreat, but still is ever found 
Waiting and present on each sentry's round. 



436 Cadet Grey. 

V. 

Within the camp they lie, the young, the brave, 
Half knight, half schoolboy, acolytes of fame, 

Pledged to one altar, and perchance one grave ; 
Bred to fear nothing but reproach and blame, 

Ascetic dandies o'er whom vestals rave, 

Clean-limbed young Spartans, disciplined young 
elves. 

Taught to destroy, that they may live to save, 
Students embattled, soldiers at their shelves. 
Heroes whose conquests are at first themselves. 

VI, 

Within the camp they lie, in dreams are freed 

From the grim discipline they learn to love ; 
In dreams no more the sentry's challenge heed, 

In dreams afar beyond their pickets rove ; 
One treads once more the piney paths that lead 

To his green mountain home, and pausing hears 
The cattle call ; one treads the tangled weed 

Of slippery rocks beside Atlantic piers ; 

One smiles in sleep, one wakens wet with tears. 

VII. 

One scents the breath of jasmine flowers that twine 
The pillared porches of his Southern home ; 

One hears the coo of pigeons in the pine 
Of Western woods where he was wont to roam ; 

One sees the sunset fire the distant line 

Where the long prairie sweeps its levels down ; 

One treads the snowpeaks ; one by lainps that shine 
Down the broad highways of the sea-girt town, 
And two are missing — Cadets Grey and Brown ! 



Cadet Grey. 437 

VIII. 

Much as I grieve to chronicle the fact, 

That self-same truant known as " Cadet Grey " 
Was the young hero of our moral tract, 

Shorn of his twofold names on entrance-day. 
" Winthrop " and " Adams " dropped in that one act 

Of martial curtness, and the roll-call thinned 
Of his ancestors, he with youthful tact 

Indulgence claimed, since Winthrop no more 
sinned. 

Nor sainted Adams winced when he, plain Grey was 
"skinned." 

IX. 

He had known trials since we saw him last, 
By sheer good luck had just escaped rejection, 

Not for his learning, but that it was cast 

In a spare frame scarce fit for drill inspection j 

But when he ope'd his lips a stream so vast 
Of information flooded each professor, 

They quite forgot his eyeglass — something past 
All precedent — accepting the transgressor, 
Weak eyes and all of which he was possessor. 

X. 

E'en the first day he touched a blackboard's space — 

So the tradition of his glory lingers — 
Two wise professors fainted, each with face 

White as the chalk within his rapid fingers : 
All day he ciphered, at such frantic pace, 

His form was hid in chalk precipitation 
Of every problem, till they said his case 

Could meet from them no fair examination 

Till Congress made a new appropriation. 



438 Cadet Grey. 

XI. 

Famous in molecules, he demonstrated 

From the mess hash to many a listening classful ; 

Great as a botanist, he separated 

Three kinds of " Mentha " in one julep's glassful ; 

High in astronomy, it has been stated 
He was the first at West Point to discover 

Mars' missing satellites, and calculated 
Their true positions, not the heavens over, 
But 'neath the window of Miss Kitty Rover. 

XII. 

Indeed I fear this novelty celestial 

That very night was visible and clear ; 
At least two youths of aspect most terrestrial, 

And clad in uniform, were loitering near 
A villa's casement, where a gentle vestal 

Took their impatience somewhat patiently, 
Knowing the youths were somewhat green and 
" bestial " — 

(A certain slang of the Academy, 

I beg the reader won't refer to me). 

XIII. 

For when they ceased their ardent strain, Miss Kitty 
Glowed not with anger nor a kindred flame. 

But rather flushed with an odd sort of pity. 

Half matron's kindness, and half coquette's shame j 

Proud yet quite blameful, when she heard their ditty 
She gave her soul poetical expression. 

And being clever too, as she was pretty. 

From her high casement warbled this confession- 
Half provocation and one half repression : — 



Cadet Grey. 439 

NOT YET. 

Not yet, O friend, not yet ! the patient stars 
Lean from their lattices, content to wait. 
All is illusion till the morning bars 
Slip from the levels of the Eastern gate. 
Night is too young, O fiiend ! day is too near % 
Wait for the day that maketh all things clear. 
Not yet, O friend, not yet ! 

Not yet, O love, not yet ! all is not true, 
All is not ever, as it seemeth now. 
Soon shall the river take another blue, 
Soon dies yon light upon the mountain brow. 
What lieth dark, O love, bright day will fill. 
Wait for thy morning, be it good or ill — S 
Not yet, O love, not yet I 

XIV. 
The strain was finished ; softly as the night 

Her voice died from the window, yet e'en then 
Fluttered and fell likewise a kerchief white ; 

But that no doubt was accident, for when 
She sought her couch she deemed her conduct quite 

Beyond the reach of scandalous commentor — 
Washing her hands of either gallant wight 

Knowing the moralist might compliment her — 

Thus voicing Siren with the words of Mentor. 

XV. 

She little knew the youths below, who straight 
Dived for her kerchief, and quite overlooked 

The pregnant moral she would inculcate \ 

Nor dreamed the less how little Winthrop brooked 

Her right to doubt his soul's maturer state. 

Brown — who was Western, amiable, and new — 

Might take the moral and accept his fate ; 
The which he did, but, being stronger too, 
Took the white kerchief, also, as his due. 



440 Cadet Grey. 

XVI. 

They did not quarrel, which no doubt seemed queer 
To those who knew not how their friendship 
blended; 

Each were opposed, and each the other's peer, 
Yet each other in some things transcended. 

Where Brown lacked culture, brains — and oft, I fear, 
Cash in his pocket — Grey of course supplied him ; 

Where Grey lacked frankness, force, and faith 
sincere, 
Brown of his manhood suffered none to chide him, 
But in his faults stood manfully beside him. 

XVII. 

In academic walks and studies grave, 

In the camp drill and martial occupation, 

They helped each other ; but just here I crave 
Space for the reader's full imagination — 

The fact is patent. Grey became a slave ! — 
A tool, a fag, a " pleb ! " To state it plainer, 

All that blue blood and ancestry e'er gave, 

Cleaned guns, brought water ! — was, in fact, retainer 
To Jones, whose uncle was a paper-stainer ! 

XVIII. 

How they bore this at home I cannot say : 

I only know so runs the gossip's tale. 
It chanced one day that the paternal Grey 

Came to West Point that he himself might hail 
The future hero in some proper way 

Consistent with his lineage. With him came 
A judge, .a poet, and a brave array 

Of aunts and uncles, bearing each a name, 

Eyeglass and respirator with the same. 



Cadet Grey, 441 

XIX. 

"Observe !" quoth Grey the elder to his friends, 

" Not in these giddy youths at base-ball playing 
You'll notice Winthrop Adams ! Greater ends 

Than these absorb his leisure. No doubt* straying 
With Caesar's Commentaries, he attends * 

Some Roman council. Let us ask, however, 
Yon grimy urchin, who my soul offends 

By wheeling offal, if he will endeavour 

To find What ! heaven ! Winthrop ! Oh ! no ! 

never ! " 

XX. 

Alas ! too true ! The last of all the Greys 
Was " doing police detail ; " it had come 

To this ; in vain were the historic bays 

That crowned the pictured Puritans at home ! 

And yet 'twas certain that in grosser ways 

Of health and physique he was quite improving. 

Straighter he stood, and had achieved some praise 
In other exercise, much more behooving 
A soldier's taste than merely dirt removing. 

XXI. 

But to resume : we left the youthful pair, 
Some stanzas back, before a lady's bower ; 

'Tis to be hoped they were no longer there, 
For stars were pointing to the morning hour. 

Their escapade discovered, ill 'twould fare 
With our two heroes, derelict of orders ; 

But, like the ghost, they " scent the morning air," 
And back again they steal across the borders, 
Unseen, unheeded, by their martial warders. 



442 Cadet Grey. 

XXII. 

They got to bed with speed : young Grey to dream 
Of some vague future with a general's star, 

And Mistress Kitty basking in its gleam ; 
While Brown, content to worship her afar, 

Dreamed himself dying by some lonely stream, 
Having snatched Kitty from eighteen Nez Perces, 

Till a far bugle, with the morning beam, 
In his dull ear its fateful song rehearses. 
Which Winthrop Adams after put to verses. 

XXIII. 

So passed three years of their noviciate, 

The first real boyhood Grey bad ever known. 

His youth ran clear — not choked like his Cochituate, 
In civic pipes, but free and pure alone ; 

Yet knew repression, could himself habituate 
To having mind and body well rubbed down, 

Could read himself in others, and could situate 
Themselves in him — except, I grieve to own. 
He couldn't see what Kitty saw in Brown ! 

XXIV. 

At last came graduation ; Brown received 
In the One Hundredth Cavalry commission ; 

Then frolic, flirting, parting — when none grieved 
Save Brown, who loved our young Academician, 

And Grey, who felt his friend was still deceived 
By Mistress Kitty, who with other beauties 

Graced the occasion, and it was believed 

Had promised Brown that when he could recruit his 
Promised command, she'd share with him those duties, 

XXV. 

Howe'er this I know not ; all I know. 

The night was June's, the moon rode high and clear, 



Cadet Grey. 443 

" 'Twas such a night as this " — three years ago 
Miss Kitty sang the song that two might hear. 

There is a walk where trees o'erarching grow, 
Too wide for one, not wide enough for three 

(A fact precluding any plural beau), 
Which quite explained Miss Kitty's company, 
But not why Grey that favoured one should be. 

XXVI 

There is a spring, whose limpid waters hide 
Somewhere within the shadows of that path 

Called Kosciusko's. There two figures bide^ 
Grey and Miss Kitty. Surely Nature hath 

No fairer mirror for a might-be bride 

Than this same pool that caught our gentle belle 

To its dark heart one moment. At her side 

Grey bent. A something trembled o'er the well. 
Bright, spherical — a tear ? Ah ! no, a button fell 1 

XXVII. 

" Material minds might think that gravitation," 

Quoth Grey, " drew yon metallic spheroid down. 
The soul poetic views the situation 

Fraught with more meaning. When thy girlish crown 
Was mirrored there, there was disintegration 

Of me, and all my spirit moved to you. 
Taking the form of slow precipitation ! " — 

But here came " Taps," a start, a smile, adieu \ i 

A blush, a sigh, and end of Canto 11. 

BUGLE SONG. 

Fades the light, Love, good night ! 

And afar Must thou go 

Goeth day, cometh night When the day 

And a star And the light 

Leadeth all. Need thee so— 

Speedeth all Needeth all 

To their rest 1 Heedeth all, 

That is best? 



444 Cadet Grey. 



CANTO III. 

I. 
Where the sun sinks through leagues of arid sky, 

Where the sun dies o'er leagues of arid plain, 
Where the dead bones of wasted rivers lie, 

Trailed from their channels in yon mountain chain ; 
Where day by day naught takes the wearied eye 

But the low-rimming mountains, sharply based 
On the dead levels, moving far or nigh, 

As the sick vision wanders o'er the waste, 

But ever day by day against the sunset traced ; 

II. 
There moving through a poisonous cloud that stings 

With dust of alkali the trampling band 
Of Indian ponies, ride on dusky wings 

The red marauders of the Western land ; 
Heavy with spoil, they seek the trail that brings 

Their flaunting lances to that sheltered bank 
Where lie their lodges ; and the river sings 

Forgetful of the plain beyond, that drank 

Its life blood, where the wasted caravan sank. 

III. 

They brought with them the thief's ignoble spoil. 
The beggar's dole, the greed of chiffonier, 

The scum of camps, the implements of toil 

Snatched from dead hands, to rust as useless here ; 

All they could rake or glean from hut or soil 
Piled their lean ponies, with the jackdaw's greed 

For vacant glitter. It were scarce a foil 
To all this tinsel that one feathered reed 
Bore on its barb two scalps that freshly bleed ! 



Cadet Grey. 445 

IV. 

They brought with them, alas ! a wounded foe, 
Bound hand and foot, yet nursed with cruel care. 

Lest that in death he might escape one throe 
They had decreed his living flesh should bear : 

A youthful officer, by one foul blow 
Of treachery surprised, yet fighting still 

Amid his ambushed train, calm as the snow 
Above him ; hopeless, yet content to spill 
His blood with theirs, and fighting but to kill. 



V. 

He had fought nobly, and in that brief spell 

Had won the awe of those rude border men 
Who gathered round him, and beside him fell 

In loyal faith and silence, save that when 
By smoke embarrassed, and near sight as well, 

He paused to wipe his eyeglass, and decide 
Its nearer focus, there arose a yell 

Of approbation, and Bob Barker cried 

" Wade in, Dundreary ! " tossed his cap and — died. 



VI. 

Their sole survivor now ! his captors bear 
Him all unconscious, and beside the stream 

Leave him to rest \ meantime the squaws prepare 
The stake for sacrifice : nor wakes a gleam 

Of pity in those Furies' eyes that glare 
Expectant of the torture ; yet alway- 

His steadfast spirit shines and mocks them there 
With peace they know not, till at close of day 
On his dull ear there thrills a whispered " Grey ! " 



44^ Cadet Grey. 

VII. 

He starts ! Was it a trick ? Had angels kind 

Touched with compassion some weak woman's 
breast ? 
Such things he'd read of ! Faintly to his mind 

Came Pocohontas pleading for her guest. 
But then this voice, though soft, was still inclined 

To baritone ! A squaw in ragged gown 
Stood near him frowning hatred. Was he blind ? 

Whose eye was this beneath that beetling frown ? 

The frown was painted, but that wink meant— 
Brown ! 

VIII. 

" Hush ! for your life and mine ! the thongs are cut," 
He whispers ; " in yon thicket stands my horse, 

One dash ! — I follow close, as if to glut 

My own revenge, yet bar the other's course. 

Now ! " And 'tis done. Grey speeds, Brown follows ; 
but 

Ere yet they reach the shade, Grey, fainting, reels — 

Yet not before Brown's circling arms close shut 
His in, uplifting him ! Anon he feels 
A horse beneath him bound, and hears the rattling 
heels. 

IX. 

Then rose a yell of baffled hate, and sprang 
Headlong the savages in swift pursuit ; 

Though speed the fugitives, they hope to hang 
Hot on their heels, like wolves, with tireless foot. 

Long is the chase ; Brown hears with inward pang 
The short, hard panting of his gallant steed 

Beneath its double burden ; vainly rang 



Cadet Grey. 447 

Both voice and spur. The heaving flanks may 
i bleed, 

Yet comes the sequel that they still must heed ! 

X. 

Brown saw it — reined his steed ; dismounting, stood 

Calm and inflexible. " Old chap ! you see 
There is but one escape. You know it ? Good ! 

There is one man to take it. You are he, 
The horse won't carry double. If he could, 

'Twould but protract this bother, I shall stay : 
I've business with these devils — they with me ; 

I will occupy them till you get away. 

Hush ! quick time, forward. There ! God bless 
you, Grey ! " 

XI. 

But as he finished, Grey slipped to his feet, 
Calm as his ancestors in voice and eye : 
You do forget yourself when you compete 
With him whose right it is to stay here and to die : 

That's not your duty. Please regain your seat : 
And take my orders — since I rank you here ! — 

Mount and rejoin your men, and my defeat 
Report at quarters. Take this letter ; ne'er 
Give it to aught but her, though death should 
interfere." 

XII. 

And, shamed and blushing. Brown the letter took 
Obediently and placed it in his pocket, 

Then drawing forth another, said, " I look 

For death as you do, wherefore take this locket 

And letter." Here his comrade's hand he shook 
In silence. " Should we both together fall, 
, Some other man " — but here all speech forsook 



448 Cadet Grey. 

His lips, as ringing cheerily o'er all 
He heard afar his own dear bugle-call ! 

XIII. 

'Twas his command and succour, but e'en then 
Grey fainted, with poor Brown, who had forgot 

He likewise had been wounded, and both men 
Were picked up quite unconscious of their lot. 

Long lay they in extremity, and when 

They both grew stronger, and once more exchanged 

Old vows and memories, one common " den " 
In hospital was theirs, and free they ranged, 
Awaiting orders, but no more estranged. 

XIV. 

And yet 'twas strange — nor can I end my tale 
Without this moral, to be fair and just : 

They never sought to know why each did fail 
The prompt fulfilment of the other's trust. 

It was suggested they could not avail 
Themselves of either letter, since they were 

Duly dispatched to their address by mail 
By Captain X., who knew Miss Rover fair 
Now meant stout Mistress Bloggs of Blank Blank 
Square, 



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